Nope, I’m no longer a slave to the TV.
I am a slave to the nice, moderate temps, the sunny skies, and possession of a car with a top that goes down when I want it to and up when I need it to. It doesn’t matter that gas is an arm and three quarters of a leg per gallon. I have a new distraction.
Well, an old distraction come back to enjoy the nice Autumn days.
I can invent errands to run if I feel pressed to have a reason to be out on the road, but honestly, most days I just get in and drive. I avoid the Interstate because there’s always a semi that picks me to ride alongside, so I take the Long Way To Everywhere, Green Day blaring from the stereo (prompting looks from hybrid drivers that suggest “You ARE an American Idiot”) and the wind whipping through my perfect-for-a-convertible hair.
Yes, there is such a thing. Some hair is too long—you could wind up with it wrapped around your neck and choking you to death (think of Isadora Duncan and her scarf…)—and some hair is just too short, because it doesn’t move in the breeze. Mine…mine is perfect. It whips around but doesn’t get in my eyes. It flutters gently about my head, as if teased by tiny little fingers. It rides on wisps of wind. (Shut up. I’m being literary here.)
So basically, the 3 projects I have sitting here simmering are still not getting done, but I’m having a spiffy time not doing them.
I have Convertible Hair.
Hear me roar.