fidget

My ibook came yesterday. It is certainly the best birthday present I've ever bought myself (I'm 28 on Saturday). It's brand new and seems like more than I deserve, but it also feels like a real investment in myself and what I want to be doing--writing. I'm throwing a party Friday night and my parents arrive for a visit from Pennsylvania, so I've been too busy doing stuff to do anything more than open the box. But I can't stop thinking about cracking into it and filling all the empty space with writing. It reminds me of being in seventh grade English class. Mr. Argot taught us grammar and I was getting it. I loved English enough, even back then, that getting grammar was pretty stimulating for me (I know--nerd). Sarah Smith sat behind me and she seemed to be a little less into the grammar thing than I was. Sarah was a quiet girl but with a jittery, excitable streak. She had upturned eyes and a tipped-down chin when she smiled as if she was waiting for you to kiss her blonde bangs. That day in English she was antsy. I could hear her fingertips drumming the desktop rhythmically. I glanced halfway over my shoulder a few times before turning enough so she knew I was noticing her tapping. "Sorry," she said in a whisper. "I just really wish I had a piano right now." I understood what she meant. Sometimes you just really want to play. That's how I feel now; stuck at work and drumming my fingers on these keys to mark time and temper my impatience until I get to the real stuff. These days writing is my play, like being let out for recess and right now I'm dying to run...