the wild hare

Every now and then, I get a wild hare.
An impulse.
Especially in spring, when it's bright and windy.
I've got one now.
I want to be outside in a long skirt in the wind, tugging a suitcase behind me down a street I've never seen before. I want to sit in a hammock in the sun with one leg hanging out, reading something unbelievable that gives me goosebumps. I want sushi, everything lined up just so. I want to try something I've never tried before, even if it's just a weird drink. I want to get a tattoo and heavy bangs and wear lots of eyeliner and smirk. I want to walk out of a midnight movie unable to shut up and sit at Waffle House with my fingers steaming against coffee I don't need. I want to climb waterfalls and throw myself into waves and ride roller coasters and leap off of very large rocks.
And... I can't do any of that.
It's a soft little suburban life I have, a wonderful one. I have responsibilities, things that tie me down. And, oddly enough, most tattoo parlors don't offer childcare. The most I can do is bleach some streaks in my hair and write something rebellious and walk barefoot in the grass and find four-leaf clovers, which is my secret superpower.
Which, honestly, isn't half bad.
But it's there, the wild hare. The longing for adventure.
For me, for now, the adventures must stay on the page.
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