On literature and first glances
posted 4-21-2006

 
Now that spring has shown and the saps are flowing (who, me — slam lovesick swains? Na-a-a-ahh.), it’s time to reconsider dating. Having recovered from Seasonal Affective Disorder and crawled out from under my overburdened life like a chipmunk emerging from hibernation, I’ve been scouting out flirty little flouncy dresses and pastel pumps with which to bewitch, replenishing my make-up, and trying new scents with abandon, like a good little girl answering Nature’s call.

But my brain, as usual, has taken a step back from both this and reading the newspapers, trolling for something succulent to write about, and rethought what it really means to be dating. Or, for that matter, writing while dating (it is an unseemly fact that writers, being well able to pen glorious love letters themselves, vainly hope to receive same from the various targets of their affections; and this almost never happens, disgustingly).

When of all things, the movie channels on cable intervened, drawing me to an inescapable conclusion: I am jealous — of both people who have someone appreciative to whom they can write magnificent love letters, and those who receive such. The cool, perfect, sunlit day today merely intensifies this.

Damn the French! They know how to write belles lettres when it suits them.