Two cups of figurative AND literal tea. I don’t know when this started, but it’s my cure-all. What is it, do you think? Is it as simple as the fact that it’s hot? I’m inclined to think it’s more the ritual of it: the motions, listening to the kettle bubble, splashing milk, dipping fingers into the cup to get the teabag, sitting down and smelling the liquid, sipping idly. Soothing, and wonderfully banal. So today I want at least two cups of tea, for stomach and soul, before I venture out into the world.
I’m feeling, you see, really, frightfully self-indulgent today. And in fact quite miserable. Not in an unfixable down-in-the-dumps kind of way so much as in an existential-crisis sort of way, which is better, because it stems, I know, from thinking too much, so if I know what’s good for me I’ll do things that keep me from thinking too much, like running and reading and the like. The only problem with reading is that every two pages or so I look up and apply what I’ve just read to my own life, with the result that I think doubly as hard as I would if I wasn’t reading (just imagine trying to apply Gaudy Night to your own ultra-modern life, and your head will boggle, I promise).
Have finished cup #1 now. So must go off to make #2. Sadly it’s a beautiful day outside, so I must go and enjoy it. If it was raining hard, or better yet, snowing (yes, stranger things have happened in Boston than snow in October, I’m sure), I could justify staying inside all day, steeling myself against the world, having, say, four or even five cups of tea, reading my entire book, and taking a long nap. As it is I think I shall have to put on dark glasses and face what looks, from my window, like a perfectly gorgeous fall day. Poor little me, eh?