I'm Back!

... And hopefully less cheesy than I was two years ago.

This is my best friend Ali, who has periodically and mercilessly reminded me of my failed blog over the past two years. This revival is dedicated to her.

Oh My Degas!

Not too long ago, someone introduced me to Degas.

His paintings are flushed with an air of romanticism. The tulle of the dancers' skirts flirt with the brush's strokes; you can hear the poised young ladies chatter excitedly about their weekend plans; rehearsal wraps up, the girls loosen their graceful buns, and they're dismissed to the boulevards of France, en route to an undoubtedly classy café.

Perhaps Degas entertains my sub rosa ambitions of life as a ballerina. An existence consumed with the subdued glamour of pirouettes and arabesques, rouge-stained cheeks, and a faculty that only a nonpareil elite share. I am so honestly transfixed by the allure of said lifestyle that I have a confession to make: once in a while, I will glance at a Degas painting and just ... think classy thoughts. I think about the cobbled avenues of Paris, the fresh crêpes for breakfast. I picture cap-toed ballet flats -- hand-made, of course, with ribbons to hug the kind of calves only dancers have. I look at my hands and envisage callouses earned from hours spent on the ballet bar -- not to be confused with the monkey bars. I can smell the redolent lilac tones of a delicate eau de toilette. I can feel my toes slip into a point shoe; I can see my leotard play with the light spilling through an aperture in the studio ceiling.

I see Degas, but I dream of that life.

One Month

98.7 on I-495, Rascal Flatts eddies around me. Wet hair, stiff with chlorine, slackening with the ease of an afternoon sans homework. Fake Ray-Bans (but no one can tell), head leaned back, soaking up the sun like I'm an old Sheryl Crow lyric. Bathing suit on, shoes off, worries dissipated and good times accumulated. Laughter ricocheting everywhere like a game of wall ball with youth league buddies. Nails painted ten different colors, temporary tattoos stamping your arms, and your tongue stained a scarlet that only cherry popsicles can furnish.

Dear Summer,

Please hurry!

Love,

Allison

Good Decisions

BEST DECISION EVER:

I made "The Daily Puppy" my Internet homepage.

I was frantic last night; shuffling through papers and rummaging around my room, searching everywhere for my Spanish homework. I snatched my laptop in a frenzy to check Blackboard. My homepage appeared, and this svelte stud met my gaze.

After that ... everything got a little less stressful.

☜ On a side note, if I ever have a dog like this one, I'll name it Oliver.

An Error Occurred

Eating too much; unfastening the top clasp of your pants so you can breathe. One too many underwater somersaults in the deep end; clawing your way to the surface, to air. A nine-page analysis of Mozart's Requiem dissolving into a Microsoft error; swallowed by paralysis, hysterics envelop you. Struck by the airbag's impressive force; gasping for help, your mind nonplussed, shreds of lucidity slipping to the sinister berceuse of delusion.

Life's guileful tendencies frame a minefield through which we stagger each day. Your voice cracks, you trip on the stairs, you're late to a meeting. Someone cheats, another lies, hollow promises echo a bitter note. The next hand in the dealer's palm could be a fall from grace - another reverie adjourned.

"In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity."

-- Albert Einstein

Take this advice when life gets rough. Don your blinders and spurn the hardships; see the opportunities, and seize them. Adopt a slant of rationale. Pop some Orbit, chew on your worries, and take things into your own hands. Wear drawstring pants to dinner; try a handstand in the shallow end. Save your documents onto a USB; climb out of the wreckage and re-assess. Stop fortune's gavel before it stymies your happiness.

Grab an umbrella, and save your own damn parade from the rain.

Pigmentation

My skin is a volatile complexion; burnt sienna after a July bathed in the sun, pasty and pale as September robs me of the last traces of summer. Perhaps even rosy after an afternoon of lacrosse, or perennially blushing after a trip to Sephora.

The voices around me, an array of colors; some effervescent, others too bland to discern from the steady hum of the radiator. The tenor beside me in choir belts a grandiose cerulean; the beatboxer spits a rainbow so bright, everyone wants in on the jam sesh. The corporate lawyer, her pantsuit matching her pinstripe monotone. A teacher, his mahogany mutter ignored by the girls painting their nails in the back. #2, a braid in her hair and a Harrow shaft in her hands, calling plays, crimson resolve hugging her words. Act 2, Scene 2, of Romeo and Juliet: recited into virescent life by the one kid whose favorite month of school is spent in the Shakespeare unit.

A rainbow in the life.

Top 5: Sweet Reads

1. Night by Elie Wiesel

2. The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch

3. The Hot Zone by Richard Preston

4. The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks

5. Complications: A Surgeon's Notes on an Imperfect Science by Atul Gawande