that woman

I'm not sure I know how to have fun anymore, and I wonder if I've turned into that woman: super complicated with ridiculously impossible standards. A woman with a clamorous conscience and waning tolerance for casual encounters, social ignorance, and inflated egos. Or maybe I'm just cranky and tired of winter and need some damn sunshine. Some freedom. Some balance.

I want to go on a picnic. I want to spread out on a blanket of green grass or a beach of white sand. Lying there, I'd sip on a bottle of prosecco and feel the bubbles spark on my tongue and giggle like a child at the tickle of it. Unearthed from layers of winter, my bare shoulders would become pink with sun, my cheeks warm, my nose freckled. And beside me would lay a stack of poetry from Neruda or Whitman or Rilke. Or perhaps even someone reading Neruda to me (in Spanish. It is so much better in Spanish.). And for a few hours, desires outside of the now would cease. Expectations would be met. Intimacy with the world around me tangible. And I would have fun.

Sigh. Want to come?