It has been a blustery day. The rain is coming down hard as I type this, leaving behind a delightful petrichor. That's a word I learned recently that refers to "a pleasant, distinctive smell frequently accompanying the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather" (OED). It's beyond perfect.
Of course, it wasn't raining this afternoon. It was lightly dusting. It wasn't enough to really obscure vision, just enough to make distant objects seem hazy and my lips feel powdery.
The wind, however, was perfect. Perfect, that is, for the macaw-shaped kite that Laura always keeps in the trunk of her car (or the boot, as they say in Britain). We went out to the parking lot by the music building and flew it for a solid half hour. The university photographer (because, apparently, they have one) hung around for most of that taking pictures of our fun. He said it would make a nice interest piece amid all of the pictures he takes of engineering students studying. I should say so.
I'm a firm believer in the idea that growing old is a choice. People make jokes about being old when you turn 20 or 30 or 40 (what is wrong with our society?), but those numbers don't really mean anything. My grandma still thought she was middle-aged when she was 82. It's about how you feel, not how many times the Earth had orbited the sun since you said "hello" to the world.
I feel like I'm at just the right age to be rushing outside to toss a kite up into the wind on a breezy autumn afternoon.
Listening to: "Little Red Corvette" by Prince
Reading: Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters