Evidence that I am a shallower person than I thought:
#1: I’m getting faintly depressed by having gone so long without getting to wear cute shoes (though my rain boots are a different kind of cute). I miss cute shoes that add two inches to my height; in fact, today I wore my hideous, awful (hidiful?) errand clogs just because they make me two inches taller.
#2: I’m considering leaving one day early so I can be at home to watch the season premiere of “Mad Men.” I hear Don Draper calling me, rattling the ice in his old-fashioned glass…. I mean, it’s only one day, and it’s not like I’m going to write War and Peace in this one day, is it? Still, the gift of time and space is so precious that I continue to feel immense guilt for even entertaining this notion of missing one day. We’ll see who wins out…the devil that is Don Draper or my guilt. (Guilt is always my great motivator, so I think we know.)
#3: I wish I’d remembered to bring my perfume.
#4: I have thought about secretly watching two hours worth of “Project Runway” in my studio.
One scrap of evidence that maybe I am a deep thinker:
“That summer the boy was alone on the farm except for his parents. His brother was working at Orullian’s Grocery in town, and there was no one to run the trap line with or swim with in the dark, weed-smelling reservoir where garter snakes made straight rapid lines in the water and the skaters rowed close to shore. So every excursion was an adventure, even if it was only a trip across the three miles of prairie to Larsen’s to get mail or groceries. He was excited at the visit to Garfield’s as he was excited by everything unusual. The hot midsummer afternoon was still and breathless, the air harder to breathe than usual. He knew there was a change in weather coming because the gingersnaps in their tall cardboard box were soft and bendable when he snitched tow to stick in his pocket. He could tell too by his father’s grumpiness accumulated through two weeks of drought, his habit of looking off into the southwest, from which either rain or hot winds might come, that something was brewing….”
~the opening paragraph of Wallace Stegner’s “Butcher Bird”