September Meanderings

Yes, it is September. A between seasons sort of month. Evidenced by the fact that I have just taken an hour-long bubble bath and donned my fleece and flannel jammies with the penguins decorating the pants and have just now finished a warm, sweet and rich cup of hot chocolate, and have a pair of recently cast-off pair sandals nearby and I really, really need to mow the lawn before the ash trees in the front yard dump their annual load of leaves there. The autumnal equinox approaches in just over a week. Which is also the pagan holiday Mabon where we honor the crones of our tribes. A celebration I am heartily in favor of since cronehood could descend upon me at pretty much any time. Although I was recently told by a very nice young man that he couldn't believe that I'm fifty, citing my relative lack of decrepitness. I'm not entirely sure if decrepitness is a word, but it does sound kind of cool for something that in reality is rather icky. I know so many adjectives, so many infinitely better ones than icky, but icky just seemed to fit. Tomorrow I need to hit the snooze only once and get out of bed a few minutes earlier. We are taking a group staff photo at work so I must make more than my normal minimal efforts in the primping department. Since I got my hair trimmed this evening I have no idea what it will do tomorrow, so much depends on the relative humidity and the hair-tousling wind force between the car and the door to the building. Nothing a little water or a tress-taming scrunchie can't handle. I have just been seized by a craving for an orange scone, the likes of which are available at Panera bakeries. Alas, the nearest Panera is fifty miles away in Sioux Falls, so I shall have to tuck this craving away until my next trip south. I also have been wondering of late how it is that I have become entangled repeatedly with Libra musicians who live in Rapid City. I really need to find a new rut. Possibly involving sharing Panera pastries with a guy who doesn't live hundreds of miles away and worships me while I sleep in on weekend mornings. I'd let him call me his goddess. Or his crone. As long as he shows up with an orange scone he may call me whatever he likes.