Random Bits of Fluff

Picture this. A brilliant, clear morning -- inches before sunrise. Clothed in layers of wool and, supposedly, toasty fleece, I roll (on the trike) out of the driveway and onto Edgewater Drive.

Being all smart and shit, I checked the temperature before donning my triking outfit. 29° That being a mite chilly, I put yoga pants over my leggings as well as a pair of footies under those fleece lined socks.

My lovely but not warm fleece socks

Awesome! I was good to go. Gorgeous morning, I ought to be able to ride forever or until my legs liquify -- whichever comes first. Right?

After 45 minutes my toes were threatening to go on strike for Thorlos® Mountaineering Socks with an Extremities Thinny chaser.

An hour into the ride the toes quit speaking to me.

At the hour and a half mark, my feet had started divorce proceedings. I came in and drowned them in a tub of steamy hot water.

If I’m gonna bike through the winter, and I am, I’m going to have to break down and buy socks that simulate Hades in July. Fat trike tires too. And a neon, lime green vest.

Hi, my name is Donna and I’m a trike geek.
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Now

Then

I woke the other night from a vivid dream where I was meeting an old potter friend. His studio was still in the group space we shared in Somerville, Massachusetts. I was thrilled to see him -- it’s been years. I was equally psyched to see his awesome wife again. As we exited the building, he introduced me to a buoyant, animated and attractive female friend. The three of us took off on our bikes (in my dreams I can be on two versus three wheels) up Broadway toward the Winter Hill section of town. It became clear, as we pedaled up the slope, that the two were having an affair.

Post dream I was bothered, worried and confused. Why? I’ve not seen my chum and his wife in over ten years. Last I heard they were happy profs and parents at a university in the north west. Why did it affect me so much?

Dream number two. I was returning to the daily grind, specifically to the gritty, old Back Bay press room where I worked throughout my 30s. My position, production manager, was no longer open so I was hired to run the Heidelberg GTO 46. To get to my press I had to crawl, climb and shimmy through a tight labyrinth of huge pastel colored, crusty steam pipes. I arrived at the press only to remember that I’d never run one of those suckers before.


And then I opened my eyes. That pressroom, where I met so many of my wonderful friends, no longer exists. The building itself is long gone -- replaced by a big, gleaming glass Apple store.

Why is this cluttering my unconscious thoughts?
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And finally, what IS it with cats and boxes?