In Which It Suddenly Occurs to Cinna That She Is Living the Life

"May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself."
--- Neil Gaiman


As an Exciting Science Researcher, I got pretty used to waking up in the morning - or, rather, abruptly re-animating from a near-death state, pouring water on myself in a semblance of hygiene, assembling myself into clothes like an undead alien visitor from another planet with only a vague idea of how human fashions work, hauling my steaming corpse into work fifteen minutes late, plugging myself into an IV of coffee, and abruptly rejoining the land of the living, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, with a universe of work ahead of me to do. I then did about 35% of the work, which was 30% more than was really expected of most human beings but only 50% of what I'd hoped to do that day, and then went home happy and fell into a deep coma next to my fiance, my hyperdrive metabolism turning the little world under our blankets into a baking-hot oven full of vivid, lovely, creative dreams. I would emerge from my cocoon the next day and start over, stressed and happy.

See, I almost said "I got pretty used to waking up, going to work and accomplishing things" but I thought that would be such an insult to the gods of Truth and Justice that lightning would probably leap through my power cable and erase the hard-drive of my faithful computer, Gwydion.

But in truth, I really liked the sense of accomplishing things and then going home. I liked my routine. I liked the fact that I could be a sedentary, sleep-obsessed creature with a faithful metabolism that kept off the pounds by burning them off constantly in the form of sorcerous heat. It kept me warm in the fickle climate of New England, ensured that I never had to put much thought into my diet, and saved on the heating bills.

Then I got married, got a visa, left my job and moved to England - all within the span of about five minutes. Baaaaah!

I am not adapted to this climate. I'm always too hot on the street, stripping down to t-shirts and skirts. Then I'm too cold in the houses, wearing silly amounts of sweaters (jumpers) and clutching mugs of tea just to keep the feeling in my fingers. My Faithful Metabolism just doesn't work here; I'm walking everywhere, miles at a time, and its response is to turn off the heat, so that I'm quite literally steaming in the rain in the minimum possible amount of clothing as the British hustle around me, dramatically bundled up in coats and scarves. Then the damn FM insists that what with all this exercise must be starving. I haven't consumed as many calories per diem since my fantastically awkward teenager stage. It's ridiculous.

I have no job! So I'm writing this romance-type novel, perching in coffee shops for hours as I do "research," i.e. reading other romance novels and looking at pictures of steampunk fashion.

And I have no money of my own! I bought my tickets and visa, paid off my credit card and showed up. That did me in for cash, and now Darling Husband has to hand me an allowance of snack-money!

In short, I am living the fucking dream.

Now I just need to convince myself to be grateful for it.

I think I'll start now.

Love,
Cinna