Spring is in the air

It's a beautiful day in Boston, which means that we might actually be rounding the corner into spring, leaving that long winter behind us.  I was cleaning out my closet and armoire (with the help and coercion of my sweet husband) and discovered a pair of boots that still have salt stains on them.  I've put away the heavy sweaters and the waterproof boots, but it's not quite warm enough to go out without a coat.  I think I like this time of year the best.  Sam Summer is now on tap in the bars, which means that Sox season has started.  I went out without socks today and didn't even glance at my hat.  Tomorrow, when husby and I make our way to Fenway Park, I'm not even thinking about wearing long underwear under my Sox T-shirt, and I might actually have to find my sunglasses.  

Sunshine makes me unusually optimistic, so I'm especially gushy after seeing that my old friend Jeff is engaged.  And in his typical style, he didn't just propose - he brought his bride to a fancy French restaurant, disappeared mysteriously, and then sang to her.  Now as a girl who has swooned at the romance of singing (and who swoons onstage pretty regularly) I give Jeff extra points for turning up the romance dial.  Another wonderful man joining the married club, we're happy to have you here.  

It's been a hard month.  Lots of trips, auditions, a dissertation that finally got approved (that's right kids, they're handing me the doctorate in count it - ONE MONTH) and the constant refrain of "what's next" that will not stop whistling in my ears.  But today, I'm feeling good.  I told my mom, the closer I get to 30, the better I feel.  I have good skin (thanks to all those years of sunscreen and moisturizing), I have great hair (genetics), and the older I am, the happier I am with my body.  My voice is in good shape, my apron strings to the academic institution are being chopped at last, and I'm really free to do whatever I like.  I can teach, or not.  I can go to work at Starbucks, or not.  I can wake up every morning and watch Beyonce sing about how a diva is a female version of a hustler (sidebar: how exactly did she come to the conclusion?  And what does being a diva have to do with wearing weird clothes and super stilettos and tossing your hair?  What am I missing?  Girl has got some style, but I think she got some bad advice on that particular video.  I'm just saying.), or dance around listening to Justin Timberlake while I'm folding the laundry.  Now if only some of those options would fall away and leave me with what I'm really supposed to be doing?!

Oy.  In the meantime.  Fenway Park.  And a story about Chanel for another time.