It should really be called Day of No Labor, right? I did no labor this weekend as I recuperated from a chest cold and enjoyed the sun in Montauk with my friend Pam. Luckily, she is nearly 8 months pregnant, so she was happy to laze around and read and take slow walks on the beach and eat ice cream and lobster. What could be better? I read Ian McEwan's newest novel, On Chesil Bay, which I was first enthralled with and then disappointed with. It's the perfect subject for me--literally, the entire story is about a couple's wedding night and their various (and differing thoughts) about the consummation to come. But personally, I thought the outcome was unrealistic. Thoughts, anyone out there?
Then I was punished today for my profligate leisure-making, as work started full force. OUCH. No matter how old I am, the day after Labor Day is always painful to me. I am a summer girl, and I feel sad when the summer is over. And this particular summer has been a great one, combining Italy, lots of cultcha, interesting men--yes! there are nice, interesting men out there!--and plenty of beach time. I am truly a late bloomer. I am only experiencing the true fun of dating at age 44. Pathetic, yet strangely hopeful, too.
Tonight, saw Midsummer's Night's Dream at the Delacorte in Central Park. It was a gorgeous balmy evening, and other than nearly missing the beginning and sitting through the first half of the first act in a ball of sweat, it was lovely. Funny and light as Shakespeare gets. No death, no war, just mixed up love triangles, just like in real life.
Tomorrow, another day of labor (as opposed to a day of no labor).
Ciao!
Bunoa notte!
Paola
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