Fitzgerald and The Art of Remembering

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This morning, I rode a bike.

It's been about five years, so the riding was a little shaky, the hands a little sweaty, and something that felt like fifty pounds of stones was lodged in my throat. That, folks, was the dread of falling, and the spectacle I'd make of myself should that happen. 
Athletic, I am not.
I was the girl who cursed summers and the end of August because of band practices on those muggy South Texas mornings. That we assembled directly in front of the high school, on full display for all the rest of the students to laugh at, was the cherry on top. Upperclassmen (i.e. hot football players) went for the cheerleaders, not the clumsy clarinet player who couldn't stay in step. And like all the other silly girls my age, I avoided the earnest saxophone players like the plague. I wanted a mystery man, not Michael Bolton. Oh, had I only known...

In the middle of our subdivision are two lakes (really nothing more than glorified drainage ponds) as this area used to be composed of rice fields. Mallards and Chinese Geese seem to be the majority, but there are seagulls and the occasional crane. Anna and Emma (my youngest two) love to walk to the lakes with a loaf of bread in the afternoons. For them, it's the funniest thing in the world to see a swarm of feathers waddle towards them, anxious for a bite. 
For me, this is a place where I sneak the occasional cigarette, cry a few tears, or let out some steam. It's a place where I can get lost in my head, run myself OUT of my head, or just be.Because, let's face it, sometimes it's a relief to let go of ourselves and just breathe in and breathe out. I wish I could say that I enjoy being there when I'm happy, but when I'm happy, I get lazy, and it's tough to tear me off the couch. 


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