In the last episode of Frozen Girl, we left our heroine sipping a frozen latte while sunning by the pool. In this episode of The Adventures of Frozen Girl, we'll find out what happens as the temperature falls faster than a 2008 stock market ticker tape...
Normally on a warm and sunny morning, our heroine, Frozen Girl, throws off the thin sheet under which she slumbers and presses the pads of her plantars on the planks of hardwood floor while stretching her limbs in all directions like a starfish reaching for plankton on a summer ocean pier. An hour of power-flow-vinyasa yoga and a few loops around the track are finished faster than Lance Armstrong can charge up the Pyrenees. A cool-ish shower, light make-up and a damp pony tail are all finished before Guy Raz can sign off of an All Things Considered episode which streams on her laptop. Wrapping her favorite dress around her, slipping into sandals and spritzing perfume on her nape, Frozen Girl is armed with the essentials to save the world, one business seminar at a time.
However, on this mid-October morning, the dim sunlight protruding through the icey-etched windowpane has had to travel through layers of stratus clouds which cover the sky like a sheet of hazy wax paper. It's as if the sun has changed from its crystal-grooved 100-watt glass envelope to a rayless-opaque 40-watt bulb. Our heroine, Frozen Girl, inches under the layers of fabric--cotton, wool, chenille, acrylic padding--which stack above her like sedimentary rock in the Grand Canyon. Paul McCartney serenades our heroine, "Here comes the sun and I sa--" as she clicks snooze for the 6th time having only been aware of this routine twice. On this day, Frozen Girl knows that she is facing her toughest nemesis; it is her Kryptonite for Superman, her binding of the bracelets for Wonder Woman, her yellow color for Green Lantern, and it's the one thing that renders the positive, energetic and happy heroine helpless: Seasonal Affective Disorder or S.A.D.
On mornings such as this, Frozen Girl is weakened by the depressive-ness of this malaise-ial disorder, S.A.D. Overnight, without being aware, Frozen Girl has suffered the affects of S.A.D. Her skin has become a pastel-pale hue of grey, 5 extra silver slivers of hair have sprouted from the crown of her head, and her normally erect spine has become slump and slack as to protrude a hump over her right shoulder at which Richard III would gawk. She stands and looks in the mirror noticing that a twister tornado has managed to sweep through her room only to twist her hair in a frizzy, knotted fray of a disheveled haystack. Under her eyes are charcoal-colored half-circles the size she left on a freshly-painted curb with her radial car tires. Slapping her hand on the side of the mirror and, with the free hand, cracking her spine erect, then staring between hazel hues into her plaintive black pupils, she reasons the antidote to the Seasonal Affective Disorder in a whisper, "Coffee".
As she ladles the powder of dark-brown coffee granules into the Turkish-style pot, our heroine scoops an extra half-spoonful into the water before plunging the spoon into the still cold viscosity. Frozen Girl, rests her leaden-heavy head upon folded arms on the chilly, linoleum counter top and waits for the water to boil the murky mixture into a pharmacological remedy. If a watched pot never boils, then a watched pot that one forgets to ignite the stove burner under has as good a chance to steam as the flue on a Union Pacific locomotive does in the age of diesel-electric powered trains. Our heroine puffs a sigh of frosty breath into her bangs, clicks the stove knob over to High and shuffles her heavy slippers to the restroom to have a pee.
Our heroine sits on the glacial latrine as the sharp spears of her elbows crease the tops of her thighs with the weight of her head in her hands. Our heroine repeats a mantra that she learned from her days as a triathlete to now get her psyched up just to simply face the day, "The woman who starts the race is not the same woman who finishes the race" and compares the short-dark-smoggy-soupy days of winter which lay ahead as a competition to test her commitment to the foreign aid life which she has chosen. Frozen Girl's ears concentrate on a sound that is familiar yet uncommon to every morning. It is the cacophony of water, something dripping, something wet, something boiling--the coffee!
They say that Eistein thought of the Theory of Relativity while sitting on the toilet. And that on a cold day in December of 1862, Lincoln sat in a frigid outhouse as he discovered the alternate phrase to saying, "87 years ago" or, "A really effing long time ago". It is ironic that Frozen Girl discovers that life is not all coffee breaks and alternative forms of mood altering substances that make your life livable. It is laughing at yourself when your pants are around your ankles, then blogging about it for your friends and family to read that makes life one hell of a good time.
In the next episode of Adventures of Frozen Girl: Getting Dressed to Go Outside. Stay tuned....
**Thanks for reading!! Please leave a comment below. You can even leave it as "anonymous" Cao cao :-)
The Adventures of Frozen Girl
In the last episode of Frozen Girl, we left our heroine sipping a frozen latte while sunning by the pool. In this episode of The Adventures of Frozen Girl, we'll find out what happens as the temperature falls faster than a 2008 stock market ticker tape...
Normally on a warm and sunny morning, our heroine, Frozen Girl, throws off the thin sheet under which she slumbers and presses the pads of her plantars on the planks of hardwood floor while stretching her limbs in all directions like a starfish reaching for plankton on a summer ocean pier. An hour of power-flow-vinyasa yoga and a few loops around the track are finished faster than Lance Armstrong can charge up the Pyrenees. A cool-ish shower, light make-up and a damp pony tail are all finished before Guy Raz can sign off of an All Things Considered episode which streams on her laptop. Wrapping her favorite dress around her, slipping into sandals and spritzing perfume on her nape, Frozen Girl is armed with the essentials to save the world, one business seminar at a time.
However, on this mid-October morning, the dim sunlight protruding through the icey-etched windowpane has had to travel through layers of stratus clouds which cover the sky like a sheet of hazy wax paper. It's as if the sun has changed from its crystal-grooved 100-watt glass envelope to a rayless-opaque 40-watt bulb. Our heroine, Frozen Girl, inches under the layers of fabric--cotton, wool, chenille, acrylic padding--which stack above her like sedimentary rock in the Grand Canyon. Paul McCartney serenades our heroine, "Here comes the sun and I sa--" as she clicks snooze for the 6th time having only been aware of this routine twice. On this day, Frozen Girl knows that she is facing her toughest nemesis; it is her Kryptonite for Superman, her binding of the bracelets for Wonder Woman, her yellow color for Green Lantern, and it's the one thing that renders the positive, energetic and happy heroine helpless: Seasonal Affective Disorder or S.A.D.
On mornings such as this, Frozen Girl is weakened by the depressive-ness of this malaise-ial disorder, S.A.D. Overnight, without being aware, Frozen Girl has suffered the affects of S.A.D. Her skin has become a pastel-pale hue of grey, 5 extra silver slivers of hair have sprouted from the crown of her head, and her normally erect spine has become slump and slack as to protrude a hump over her right shoulder at which Richard III would gawk. She stands and looks in the mirror noticing that a twister tornado has managed to sweep through her room only to twist her hair in a frizzy, knotted fray of a disheveled haystack. Under her eyes are charcoal-colored half-circles the size she left on a freshly-painted curb with her radial car tires. Slapping her hand on the side of the mirror and, with the free hand, cracking her spine erect, then staring between hazel hues into her plaintive black pupils, she reasons the antidote to the Seasonal Affective Disorder in a whisper, "Coffee".
As she ladles the powder of dark-brown coffee granules into the Turkish-style pot, our heroine scoops an extra half-spoonful into the water before plunging the spoon into the still cold viscosity. Frozen Girl, rests her leaden-heavy head upon folded arms on the chilly, linoleum counter top and waits for the water to boil the murky mixture into a pharmacological remedy. If a watched pot never boils, then a watched pot that one forgets to ignite the stove burner under has as good a chance to steam as the flue on a Union Pacific locomotive does in the age of diesel-electric powered trains. Our heroine puffs a sigh of frosty breath into her bangs, clicks the stove knob over to High and shuffles her heavy slippers to the restroom to have a pee.
Our heroine sits on the glacial latrine as the sharp spears of her elbows crease the tops of her thighs with the weight of her head in her hands. Our heroine repeats a mantra that she learned from her days as a triathlete to now get her psyched up just to simply face the day, "The woman who starts the race is not the same woman who finishes the race" and compares the short-dark-smoggy-soupy days of winter which lay ahead as a competition to test her commitment to the foreign aid life which she has chosen. Frozen Girl's ears concentrate on a sound that is familiar yet uncommon to every morning. It is the cacophony of water, something dripping, something wet, something boiling--the coffee!
They say that Eistein thought of the Theory of Relativity while sitting on the toilet. And that on a cold day in December of 1862, Lincoln sat in a frigid outhouse as he discovered the alternate phrase to saying, "87 years ago" or, "A really effing long time ago". It is ironic that Frozen Girl discovers that life is not all coffee breaks and alternative forms of mood altering substances that make your life livable. It is laughing at yourself when your pants are around your ankles, then blogging about it for your friends and family to read that makes life one hell of a good time.
In the next episode of Adventures of Frozen Girl: Getting Dressed to Go Outside. Stay tuned....
**Thanks for reading!! Please leave a comment below. You can even leave it as "anonymous" Cao cao :-)
Ode the The Wrap Dress
Oh, Wrap Dress, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. . .
One. You are so easy to wear with just a simple piece of fabric wrapped around my waist and tied with a simple knot at my side.
Two. You fit me in the summer when I only need to wear sandals to feel the breeze--when it decides to blow--which cools the sweat beads that drip down my back like light rain on a window pane.
Three. You fit me in the winter when I wear the following layers: 2 pair of tights, socks over the tights and inside my boots, a long-sleeve shirt under, and on top a cardigan sweater whose buttons are pursed like the stitches on a Thanksgiving turkey. Now, it appears as if you are only a skirt, but you and I know the real secret (wink).
Four. I love thee when you are so easy to wear after finding you on my floor, wrapped in a ball, under a misplaced heal from three days before when I didn't bother to hang you properly in the closet yet. Your finely spun polyester fabric, although highly flammable, is wrinkle-proof and requires no time to iron. I can wear you in a seconds notice as I am finishing the touches on a light makeup job, gathering my hair in a rubber band, and taking one last sip of a half-drunk cup of coffee as I step into black heels and forget my mobile phone on the kitchen table.
Five. You fit over my hips when I have spent too much time at the kitchen counter stuffing wheat husk toast (because they are somehow healthier than the white toast ones), covered in butter (because it IS healthier than Margarine--but only because it is real food) and honey (because it is healthier than sugar--even brown sugar). I know I have the Mean Reds when I am eating these. As Holly Golightly explains in Breakfast at Tiffany's, "The Mean Reds are not like The Blues because when you have The Blues you're just sad that's all, but when you have The Mean Reds, suddenly you're sad and you don't know why. The only thing to do in that case is to [cover crackers with butter and honey] and [stuff yourself until it all goes away]" [Brackets are my own.] It is a 'meal' that I eat when I know that the Mean Reds have gotten me down and nothing is to be done but self-medicate with a concoction of crunchy-buttery-sweet-street-legal drug that the markets sell so freely while, in an ironic twist, cocaine remains illegal. Although with the healthier recipe option, it is still responsible for widening my hips faster than Cal-Trans can install a new lane on the 405 Highway. Wrap Dress, I love you because you are so forgiving to the extra Kilos I have obtained in a Mean Reds meltdown.
Six. I can pull you out of a tightly packed backpack and wear you over jeans for an afternoon coffee, or dress you up with tights and heels for a night out, or better yet throw on a scarf to wear to a business meeting.
Seven. I can wear you twice in a week, and no one will know.. refer to #3
Eight. I love you when Spring comes, and I have been working out like Jack LaLane getting ready for his 86th Birthday. When I finally realize that it is bathing suit season approaching and I am tanning on my terrace so that no one will see the white of my corrugated belly. When I can finally start actually running at the track instead of trotting like the Michelin Man because I am wearing layer upon layer of sport socks and long-sleeve shirts that make it impossible to move. When my morning routine turns from pressing snooze on my alarm for an hour--because I cannot bear to feel the frigid air of the morning pressed against my skin as I change from my pajama sweats and a hoody to my workout sweats and a hoody--to getting up with only one snooze warning. When my morning tunes turn from This American Life and Ira Glass's voice on my ipod to Lil' Wayne and Jay-Z wrapping about their bling and Bentleys. When my cheeks go from looking like a sqirrel has packed a whole cache of nuts in them to normal apple-sized pods set correctly in place between my ears and nose. When I feel confident enough to wear you with just a belt and not wearing layers of clothing to hide my Winter Body.
Nine. I can wear you in any season, and you still look fashionable enough. Although I am sick and tired of wearing you after 2 years, other people have not even noticed that I keep you on a rotation between dress, skirt, and long top.
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