Friday, February 1, 2013

Cinderella-ing so hard


1. moping, sighing, day-dreaming, existing in the state of "All dressed up with no place to go"
2. Wishing you could go to the "Ball", i.e., a place you are not invited but feel as though you are destined to belong.

pining, grasping, hoping, wishing

Last night, I wanted to go to the ballet.
And with a vengeance.
 I would have given my left arm to go to the ballet. So I flailed on the couch while my roommates rightfully gave my angst the space it needed. They have all definitely earned their Mom cards. Not only do they know how to handle a twenty-year-old's emotional tantrums, they have saved me from certain Death by Double Decker Bus multiple times.
So, as I have learned in my many years of being a Professional Mope, I knew it was time to take a walk. I announced: I'm going outside real quick, and then I took off down the embankment, at a pace that would give the speediest of power-walkers a run for their money (pun SO intended).
I was feeling like the most Cinderella-y of Cinderellas.

The promise of the story of Cinderella is that fairy godmothers always arrive. They may not look just like you expect them to, but they'll be there.
As I walked down the embankment path, I passed through the first tunnel. 
Then I passed through the second, my favorite-est tunnel. Usually there is some musician or other making music in that place, but there wasn't that night. I was disappointed, but I walked on.
Then, as I approached the third tunnel, I heard the sounds of gentle guitar picking playing.
Dammit, I thought. The trump card of all trump cards: beauty. I could feel my angsty-mopiness melting under the warm rays of the persistent, beautiful sound.
The guitar pick plucked music out of the taut strings and plucked a smile around the frozen corners of my mouth.
I stopped to enjoy the music, which was telling me something:
this was my gift. Those bridges, colorful, vibrant, shining in the middle of the night, that wind, the river reflecting the lights of the buildings, the Themes sparkling enchantingly, the current lapping up against the smooth bank of sand, St. Paul's all lit up, shining across the water. 
The music was telling me: look at all of this.
All of it was for me, if I only I would stop my ninny-ish ways and receive it.


As I started back home, I stopped at the wharf, and breathed in the cold breeze floating off the river, and the warm air, laden with the smell of frying fish floating out of the pub behind me.
I sighed contentedly
I told my mother I could live off smells; even though I was living on a bowl of rice and vegetables, I was soaking in all the fragrant scents of the city and really, what else does a person need?! 
Protein. You need protein... she suggested.
None of the Starving Artists in all the novels I've read have concerned mothers emailing them about protein.
Protein: the great destroyer of the Romantic lifestyle.


As I walked back, passing my guitar-playing fairy godmother, I paused briefly, smiled, and said thank you.
The old man smiled back, sans several teeth.
I didn't think he was aware of the magic he'd worked.
But maybe he was.
All of the fairy godmothers in all the fairy tales I've read usually are.

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