Miscellanea, Part 5
This morning as I was writing in my new journal, I was thinking about how good the pen felt floating across the paper and how nice the ink looked on the page. The pages are a nice, thick paper, not quite white, not quite cream and the ink doesn’t bleed through and the pen, my beloved fountain pen, doesn’t scratch. Isn’t it funny how these simple things can bring such pleasure? Perhaps they don’t to everyone, but they certainly do to me. I completely abandoned one journal just a few pages in because the pen was rough on the page and it was unpleasant to hear and feel.
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As I was writing, I was also looking at my handwriting. Do you like your handwriting? I do now, but for a long time I did not. My best friend in middle and high school had THE BEST handwriting and I always felt mine suffered by comparison. I got a Christmas card from her and knew immediately who it was from — it’s just so smooth and elegant. I definitely think the pen makes a difference in my handwriting. It can’t be too scratchy or too fine a point. A medium point gel pen is almost ideal, but I also love my fountain pen. It’s funny though, because sometimes my handwriting sits upright and sometimes it slants and there’s no real rhyme or reason why I switch from one to the other. I also write in a bastardized mix of cursive and print.1
I found some old notes and things from middle school recently in which I was obviously trying out a new handwriting. All the letters were very round — but not bubble letters, that was a different time! — and I was dotting my i’s with circles rather than dots. It was a hoot. I think this was about the time when I wanted my name to be Samantha.
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Speaking of Samantha, have we ever talked about nicknames? Boy, when I was younger I wanted a nickname so badly, hence Samantha who could be Sam. A boyish sounding nickname was the goal for some reason. There was also a period where I wanted to be Amanda so I could be Mandy. Leandra just didn’t seem to have a ready nickname, though later of course my friend’s grandparents dubbed me Leeandrew and Louangie, respectively.2 In college, my best friend’s older sister’s boyfriend, in a drunken confusion, called me Lamont and that stuck for a while.
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As loathe as I was to take the Christmas tree down — both from a physical, labor-related standpoint and a metaphysical, not-ready-for-the-holidays-to-be-over standpoint — there is a certain pleasure in having the house back to normal. There is a clean feeling that is different from the everyday clean.
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I have an appointment for a facial this afternoon. I’m using a gift card for a local spa that was given to me by a friend for my birthday. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted a massage or a facial and ultimately decided on a facial because I so rarely get them and it seemed like more of a treat. I do love a massage though. I think I’m a very tactile person in that I like to have my back rubbed and my hair played with. If there was a place where I could pay money just to have someone lightly run their hands through my hair and then down my back for an hour, I would pay it. I have also thought about paying extra so I can just lie in the room after a massage for as long as I want before I have to get up and get dressed. They always say “take your time,” but I don’t think they’re thinking of the kind of time I’m thinking about. When I win the lottery, maybe . . .
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Speaking of the lottery, what would you do if you won? I asked my older child this question once and he had what was to me, a very surprising answer, and one that I’m sort of disappointed in myself that I hadn’t thought of. He said he would become a patron of individual artists. Like, he would be like the wealthy benefactor who supported Michelangelo. And I was like, dang, that’s a good one. Here I was thinking about beach and mountain homes and having someone give me daily massages.
I just had to look up the term “print” if you’re wondering how the brain fog is going. I couldn’t for the life of me think what the term was for non-cursive writing. On the whole the brain fog is much better, but there are still times where I cannot think of a word I’m trying to use, words I’ve known my whole life! I can feel it, right there at the edge of consciousness, like if I squint hard enough it will slide into view, but the more I try, to more it slips away. It’s a very disconcerting, frustrating feeling.
That’s where my Instagram name comes from.