I'm doing 31 things
One overly warm summer night a couple of years ago, I found myself unable to sleep. I guess it was a combination of the heat in my room, the rain pelting my window, and book I wanted to finish.
I found myself watching the grey sky slowly lightening, boiling and really wanting to go outside. It must have been about five am.
I sneak downstairs and say good morning to my mother, who has always woken up at obscenely early hours, and slip out the door without another word. No coat, no shoes, no socks, just a tank top and shorts that I wore to sleep in. The rain is cool and I’m laughing at nothing and jumping in puddles and hoping that I don’t step on a snail or a slug or a worm. My mom is standing in the doorway in her housecoat, drinking her coffeee and telling me I’m crazy. I just dance faster, trying to make splashes big enough to reach my knees and loving the mixture of slightly warm pavement and cold puddles on my feet.
The morning is like magic, the kind of surreal feeling that only comes from too little sleep and unnatural spurts of energy.
When I’m done I come back in and have some breakfast, going about my day as if it were just the same as any other.
