Speaking Confidentially: 16 March 1997

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16 March 1997

And of course the other thing that makes no sense about an online diary is knowing when to begin.

If I were the Witch of the North, I'd say to start at the beginning of the Yellow Brick Road, but that can't happen here and now. So I'll start with today.

I love waking up early on a weekend. I love waking up early on weekdays, too, but "early" on a weekend is relatively later than on a weekday and so not as wearying to achieve. I know I'm getting enough sleep when I wake two or three minutes before the alarm and wake at the same time on weekends. (And waking, not getting up, is the issue.)

Today I woke and read The Conjugial Angel for a bit and tried to remember my dreams. Just now I am out of the habit of writing and remembering my dreams (without one, the other doesn't happen). Then I got up and threw on a sundress (March in Colorado) and scurried out for a paper. Blake and I sat in the sun and read it with breakfast and CBS Sunday Morning. Later RDC joined us and had tea. Sunday mornings are nice like that.

I drove RDC to campus and headed south on University, toward the Koelbel Library. I had intended to buy a watch battery before the library opened, but instead of that kind of store, I went into a shoe store hunting for snipe, in this case a pair of black flats.

I am particular about my shoes, though I suppose few fashionable folks seeing me in them would think so. I won't sacrifice comfort or function for appearance, yet I don't like intensely practical things like rubber soles, either. If I didn't hate shoes altogether and therefore tend toward shoes I can get in and out of easily, I'd probably wear Doc Martens.

Anyway, I found a pair possibly slightly less ugly than the ones I've had and liked for two years but the right one of which I recently tore. (I doubt CLH or RRP would notice any difference in ugliness.) And then I went to Ross, a discount clothing store.

In July of 1996 I bought two dresses at Ross for my trip home in August: a Clinique green short rayon dress with a Mandarin collar and some embroidery on the bodice and a long yellow rayon with a small purple, green, and brown floral pattern. I planned to wear the yellow to my class reunion and the green to DEDB and SPG's U.S. wedding.

When I got home, I did wear the yellow to my reunion, which I think was a success, but the next day RRP choked politely at the green and suggested I wear the yellow again to the wedding, as no one would be at both events. CLH concurred with that, and so I did. No one but me was at both, but photographs prove this instance of shockingly bad taste. In CO again, I handwashed--against the tag's direction--the yellow dress, in cold water, and it shrank. I was very sad but thought at least I had the photographs. I put some photographs from the trip in a frame, thus documenting and publicizing the shockingly bad taste, and decided that at least I had flattering photographs of me in the dead dress (which I had really liked). I did at least still have the green one, with neither sister nor best pal around to correct my taste.

I have gone to Ross two or three times since then and looked desultorily for the yellow dress. And today I found it. I call that a good day.

The day got even better. I got to the library before it opened at 1:00 and sat in the sun reading and writing for a bit. I worked in the library for a few hours, then took out a stack of Italo Calvino and, in audio, Claudius the God as I'm on the second-to-last tape of Smilla's Sense of Snow. I listened to I, Claudius last summer.

And I realize what I can do about self-censorship. I can write what I like for my own, but when I prepare text for posting, I can take out whatever I need to.

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Last modified: 16 March 1997

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