Trees of Balboa Park, D.A. Ed Miller, tough USDA inspector at the border, Cuban ex-pats, short people, Oceanside gay murders, our forests of kelp
8:30 a.m., June 24
I live in the lap of luxury. No kidding, I do. Started about six years ago when the first man I chose (versus who chose me) decided that he didn’t want my love. When I plunged into the murky dank dungeons of despair. During that time of morose self torture, I did two things that changed my life forever and that helped me pull myself back up by my bootstraps.
Firstly, I bought a hammock. Two, actually, blue and green striped, woven in Guatemala. Strung them to the three maple trees out back where I proceeded to live. I took my morning tea there with the chirping birds and early sunshine. I worked there with my Mini conducting international webcam conference calls even, much to the envy of my Team many of whom were still office bound. I read there for days on end, leaf shadows dancing on the exposed skin of the leg I stretched over the edge to loll my toes in the dew drenched grass. With a single toe, I’d gentle rock myself as the heavy summer air wafted, lifting the loose strands of my hair along the side of my face. I took my evening meal there sitting up cross legged watching a host of Lady Bugs land on my fork. And, as the sun set beyond the fields of soybeans, I slept beneath the Milkyway with the dog curled up at my feet until the sullen skunk scurried out from behind the shed and he leapt after it setting me in my cotton cocoon to rocking under the moon.
I now go nowhere without a hammock. I keep one in the car. I hike with one. I even found one to fit in my purse. I'm admittedly a hammock addict and there isn't a step program that can cure me.
The second thing I did was buy the warmest sheets invented. I run cold and without him to warm me, I spent entire nights shivering no matter how many layers I slipped beneath the comforters with. I started with a fleece set and was so excited by how warm they were at first touch, unlike flannel that requires body heat to warm up. They were ultra soft against the skin which made up for a lot; (I sleep commando—blame it on me mum). But, I managed to find softer still—heavenly chenille.
Now, every corner of my bed—top and bottom—is silky soft warmest from the moment I slip beneath the covers. A delight that’s indescribable, especially to the must sleep clothed crowd. I sleep smiling caressed by the fuzzy fibers. Stretched sideways across the bed I assume ownership of my domain. Sheets are strewn, pillows tossed onto the floor as I roll throughout the night. Oh yes. Me and my bed head never felt so damn good.
Took me longer than I care to admit to climb up and out of that misery pit, but with the aid of a few select items of simplicity, I managed to not only do so but to find the pleasure in me, the joy in me. A vital awakening as, like many women, I had only previously sought it in and through others.
I have always been a simple lass, easily pleased. Not much complicated about me. Give me a sunset in a hammock wrapped in chenille and I’m living in the lap of luxury. Toss in a wee bit of Knob Creek, an intriguing lengthy tale, a set of long arms wrapped around me and full lips nibbling at my ear and I’ve done gone to heaven.