After dropping off my weekend visitor at the airport yesterday, I went home, deflated the air mattress, threw a load in the washing machine, put away the mounds of clothing I habitually pile on top of my wicker and white beach cruiser (now glowing melancholy in the corner of my room), and decidedly treated myself to a pedicure.
I made a quick right into the first salon I found on Washington Street, and to my surprise, the very affordable semi-spa treatment included a hot stone massage. From there, I wandered into the used bookstore a few shops down from the salon, purchased The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank, and stopped by my favorite market to pick up a few things for dinner.
My kitchen window is my favorite part of my little home (the former being the darling cast-iron claw foot bathtub, but as I'm currently without hot water, I'm holding the worst kind of grudge against anything of bathroom orientation). Last night, although I made summery Quinoa, opened a bottle of pinot, and even set my ipod to George Winston, my kitchen window stole the show. It permitted the occasional but sure breeze to pass into my home and swipe at thoughts I swore I'd put to rest, now two months in. The breeze played with my hair, teased the candle flame, convinced a return to lightness and buoyancy, reminded me that the only person I am genuine (and good) at being is me.
[image via here]