The word for the weekend: VOLUPTUOUS.
My libido is awakening as if from the slumber of a long decaying marriage. It wants to stay out late, swill martinis, and offer itself up as a devotee prostrated at the foot of the twin gods of Beauty and Pleasure.
Friday: tango. My hot, little, magenta and black polka dot dress, ruffles hemmed high in the front and long in the back to frame my calves like two veal cutlets, lightly braised and served on a bed of red kale. Even when the dress clasp broke and I had to switch to a beguiling back-up raiment of blue and brown polka dotted meringue, the deities, unflappable in their delight, tangoed me on. Saturday: spa. My girlfriend M and I indulged in FOUR hedonistic hours of fluffy robes and an insouciant gluttony of towels, steam, massage oil, and inexcusably expensive facial products that would have the best Boulderites pointing at my hybrid and crying foul. Then more tango. Sunday: meditation, shopping for lingerie for no good reason, phone time with one of my dearest and oldest friends, reading in the rocking chair, and napping in the rocking chair. I dipped my hand in and out of sleep, and, each time, it came out so coated in oily velvet that I felt as if I had become a chocolate truffle on God’s tongue. I am alive. I am happy. I am grateful. It is spring. Be warned. I need to kiss you.
On a side note: Another girlfriend surprised me tonight with an unexpected phone call, very plainly and un-blamingly asking me for a little more mindfulness and effort on my part in our relationship. This woman never ceases to impress me. She wields her vulnerability like a glass blower, breathing and turning life into this hot, molten thing inside of her until it yields such delicate efflorescence that smashing it would be unthinkable. I could learn a lot from her.
Tomorrow’s dilemma: finish my book or catch up on my Netflix subscription. I give these intemperances through Wednesday and then I dive into my thesis and re-ground my affliction of Eros in Inanna’s underworld.