And the silly good times, too

Having been accused of having a “lyrical” writing style because of my last post (about the glorious dearth of big-city noise pollution on Prince Edward Island), I thought I should also make it clear that, as my husband informed me last night: I can be funny, when I put my mind to it. That’s what he said: “You can be funny, when you put your mind to it.” I think that means I’m not funny, except inadvertently, and that’s something else entirely.

My bff also tried to console me, telling me that even Virginia Woolf and Hilary Mantel have had to contend, at points, with accusations of lyricism in their writing; this would be more convincing a sop to my wounded feelings if I possessed even 1/1000th of the talent of either of these world-shaking ladies’ little toes. As it is, all I’ve got is cheap laptop and a resentment, so get ready.

Actually, I’m not really feeling either very hilarious or punchy; in fact, I’m the very embodiment of the sort of good-time feeling that results in my walking about wearing a huge, silly grin that can’t be dialed back, no matter how much my cramped and pinched fellow city-dwellers ignore me, look suspicious or disbelieving, or seem embarrassed (for me).

You see, 17 years ago this week-ish, my now-husband and I met and immediately got together–as you do when you’re still in your 20s and think, “Hey, I’ll be out of this hellhole in a year’s time, I may as well have some fun now.” It’s all very romantic, of course; but it’s also been years and years of silly, fun times too.

Windy PEI

Last week on the island was no exception; the flip side to my countryside physical and spiritual renewal included windblown selfies, French fries out of a freezer bag for lunch, pulling my mother-in-law’s dog out of the ditches he so ingloriously insisted on rolling around in, picking up said dog’s poo, watching Cathy Jones lose her damn mind at the Victoria Playhouse, staying up very late one night weeping uncontrollably over Edith Pargeter’s The Heaven Tree, and the fog-inspired return of my white-girl afro. For all the profundity and dignity, my week away–like these 17 years with my darling–was a blessed counterweight of sniffling, giggling, and undignified joy in life.

Windy PEI 2

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9 thoughts on “And the silly good times, too

  1. *advertantly. Also, I am misquoted. While I cannot rightly remember the exact phrasing, I am certain it was something more in the line of, “you make me smile, laugh and sniffle each day, I wouldn’t have it any other way, and the best end bracket to a dignified silence of cherished, loving warmth (lyrical or otherwise) is the ripsnort produced by one of your (mid-,high-, or low-brow) funnies.”

  2. There is a wonderful confidence boosting book called Curly Girl written by a hair stylist whose salon specializes in curly hair and she herself has curly hair. I still can’t get my hair to look like anything in the book but I have stopped worrying so much about frizz and am working on embracing the curls no matter their mood. Though I haven’t yet managed to not have an occasional “I hate my curls why do I even bother trying to do anything with them” kind of days, it’s still going pretty well.

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