Sprang

I find myself in the midst of a busy springtide. On Sunday, I noticed that it had been a full two months since I turned thirty, and I had yet to remark on it in any real way. Let me put it at this: the first three decades of life were more good than they were bad, particularly what I can recall of that first one (which is more than you might imagine). The second was insufferably awkward, but had its charms. The most recent was wildly uneven, comprising both the most exalted highs and profoundest lows. I'm happy to say that the third anniversary of that high streak is arriving this Wednesday; the responsible party has already received her gifts, but there shall of course be the customary dining and floral accoutrement as well.

Languishing in my bin of half-written posts is a piece about how I spent my Spring Break, now that I take Spring Breaks again. This one involved a great deal of learning, dust, adhesive substances and profanity. You may see the tale here in its best form, as it is a story that I think works better in pictures than prose.

I'm still adjusting to having a social calendar; I fear I may never feel quite at ease with it, fundamentally remaining the homebody teen of half a lifetime ago. Hell, I've even, of late, seen the potential necessity of buying a second suit. Madness! Nonetheless, the friendly but foreboding rectangles of commitment on my Google Calendar keep appearing. Twice a month with the neighborhood association; every few weeks with the Zetas, or those we know by them; her friends from work, my co-workers, and so on. I still have no idea what to say to anyone; names and faces just don't gel. As such things go, I'd much rather be an anonymous face in a crowd at an event, or even a presenter or performer than a participant in much-dreaded actual conversation.

But Spring is not yet done with me. The allergic nightmare has passed for the year (I hope), but now I'm making more dust of my own with another project, this time in the office, involving my old friends drywall, joint compound and grout. Joining the team this time are the wacky duo of kitty litter and tile; there will be photos when the whole disaster concludes. And conclude it shall, as my dear in-laws will be needing the office in sleepable condition for their visit in a couple weeks. Great folks that they are, I shouldn't want them to be subjected to unconcealed cat poo or slivers in the carpet.

Work is an adventure of its own these days; the dust has barely settled from the construction of our new little endeavor, but I find myself on the move up the chain of command. What is it that I do? I scarcely know myself from day to day, but it seems to involve computers and maps and databases and land parcels and the whispered promise of Big Things To Come. We Shall See.

All this, of course, is by way of excusing my meager (read: absent) blogging of late. I resolve to do better as a thirty-and-one-sixth-year-old than I did as a callow trigenarian. No, really! Hey come back here...

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