tuesday's snow was perfect snowman-building snow. thick, wet, clumpy, the kind that lumps up all by itself and practically rolls itself into balls.
I almost built a snowman.
I received snowshoes for Christmas a couple years ago, and the first time I went out I had to stop on a virgin hillside, tip-toe (um-hm, sure) my way out a bit, and toss myself onto my back. I stretched my arms wide, and jumping-jacked my legs, and made myself a snow angel. I giggled and smiled up at the sky, and felt pure, fabulous, uninhibited joy. I was playing, I was connecting with that part of me that is so easily stifled by my mature and functional life.
shoveling snow on tuesday caused that little joyful part of me to tap on my heart and ask, please, can I come out and play?
serious me considered it, considered the shoveling I still had to finish, considered my tights and skirt and list of errands to accomplish before three o'clock, and told little joyful me, sorry, truly, but not today.
I was crushed. but I had things to do.
yesterday most of the snow in my yard gave in to the sun and dripping trees, slipping away into the grass. there's a bit left, not much, but possibly enough to fashion a small, say, snow bunny or something. playful me looks out the window and doesn't think twice, but is instantly up for it. why not?
boring old responsible me doesn't think I have enough time because I have to finish this post, clean the kitchen, get to an appointment, then fit in everything else like work and laundry and shuttling a child or two around.
I've never built a snow bunny.
I wonder if I know how.
hell's bells, joyful me knows.