Elegant living in a green dress
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We have
numerous ways of fooling ourselves; at least I have. Little things, like “a
change is as good as a rest” for when I get bogged down on a project. Or, “If I
take a walk, I will no longer want to piggy the rest of the liter of ice
cream.” Good luck with that one.
In the
interest of changing up my daily routine, this morning I put on my green dress.
This is not just any green dress. This is an elegant green dress. It flows in
simple lines all the way to my feet. The fabric is rich, a smooth blend of rayon,
cotton and silk. A virgin dress. Never worn, never sullied.
I don’t
remember when or where I bought this dress. This dress is “Me”. I’ve carted it
around the country. I suspect I bought it when me was larger. It is a dress fit
for an ‘occasion’ and it might be the occasion never arrived.
Which is
silly. Mexican women dress up for any and every, including no occasion excuse.
They dress in finery that we Montana women, well, we Montana women are more
comfortable in jeans and flannel. I speak for me.
In past
times I’ve put my dress on, then took it off and hung it back in the closet.
Too dressy.
Today is the
day. Occasion be hanged. Who knows when a real occasion will present.
That green
dress slid over my body like a slinky toy going down a stairway, smooth and
easy.
Mmmmm ummm. Felt so good. Swished around my ankles. Looking good, woman.
Made cowboy
coffee and heated a pastry in the oven. Sat like a proper lady through my
morning readings. Maybe there is something to be said for tarting up now and then.
Time for my
physical therapy exercise. Now I need to make a decision. Grumble. Off with
dress, on with clam diggers and loose Mexican blouse. I huff and puff through
my routine, head out the door for a walk back and forth on rancho lanes,
finishing with exercise bicycle.
Side story:
While still bed-redden after surgery, I began thinking about therapy to come. I
know the benefits of a stationary bike. This is not my first stroll around the
block.
So I put the
word out to those who spoke Spanish that I’d like a bike. A simple bike. Not
one with electronics or electrical plug. Not one that told me I ate too much or
insisted I go faster or that rated my heart (broken more than once and never
repaired), or depicted hills to climb. A simple stationary bike.
Ariel,
Lani’s husband, found me a bike that might be older than me. Low mileage, rode
only on Sunday by a little old lady going to church, still has original tires.
Ariel chipped off the rust, painted the chassis, greased the chain and
generally spiffed it up. We added a brand new big-butt seat. That bike is
perfect. But I can’t ride it in an elegant green dress.
Finished with
my morning routine, I shucked pants and slid back into my green dress. While
sliding the dress over my head, I noticed the bottom third of the dress had
picked up a collection of hitch hikers, stray hairs and dust bunnies.
Off with the
dress. Dusted, swept and mopped my floors. Now I’m hungry. Clock says 1:30. Might
as well eat.
On with the
dress. The rest of the day, by now it is 2:30, is mine, mine, mine to sloth
about, read and rest and pretend to a life of elegant leisure. I swan out to my
little patio spot beneath the jacaranda tree, brush the jacaranda flowers off
the seat of my blue metal rocker and sit, book in hand, sigh of satisfaction on
my lips, dress softly nestled against my body. Life is good.
This
jacaranda tree is an avian paradise, a gentlemanly elder tree, shading half my
back yard, providing nest sites for a number and variety of feathery friends.
It was bound to happen. A commotion above me. I looked up. Fortunately my mouth
was closed. Splat on my green dress.
Sondra
Ashton
Looking out
my back door
April 30,
2020
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