Fleece-lined riding pants and new winter riding gloves, a Christmas present to myself. A latte for the drive to the barn, of course, along with mix CD's other people made. Then the barn, in brightness, not rain. A few moments of floating trot, and then that tired that starts in your spine. A long bath with a new book, Charles Baxter, The Art of Subtext.
That was the day. There was a Maldives show that night at the Sunset. I went, and kicked back on a stool at the bar, thinking about how very much they please me every time I see them. There were a gajillion of them on stage, all rocking out in their own little postage stamp of a spot. Still, it was Christmas at Dad's the next day, so I went home directly after the last song and tucked myself into bed without even reading a chapter.
Until 1:30. I thought it was the alarm at first. But it wasn't, it was my phone. Today's confession - I love text messages after midnight. There are many caveats to this, it's true, but let's just assume that we all understand that I mean the "We are all together and wish you were here with us and know you'll forgive us if we wake you up to tell you so!" variety. Love sometimes requires outrageous acts, and frequently rewards them.
Happy New Year Regan! XOXO