What a less than fabulous day. It's just one of those days - a dead day. Not particularly happy nor angry, just a little under. And paranoid, because that's how I become when I am under.
I haven't been working on my costume(s), but I'm hoping my Tudor Tailor book arrives sometime soon to inpspire me back to sewing. My doublet is sitting half-trimmed on the form, and I have still one more little thing to do on my Robe a L'Anglaise before Saturday's dance. I also want to go to WalMart and get some bows and make something fun for my shoes, which will be fully visible as I trip and fall to the dancefloor, since my skirt is probably too long. No further progress on new petticoats, shirts, or ruffs either. Nada.
I've had a strange little injury that causes me grumpiness. Last Friday my left ankle, calf, foot started aching for apparently no reason at all. It felt like a growing pain, that kind of bone pain you get when you're a teenager...but I don't anticipate my left leg will be experiencing a growth spurt any time soon, so I've decided it is some kind of calf strain from wearing heels. It seems a bit out of the ordinary because I wear heels quite often, and have worn very HIGH heels for years, with nothing like this. The heels I wear to work now are practiacally tennis shoes, they're so low and comfortable, so I'm not sure where exactly the random pain came from. It persisted all through the weekend, however, and has been there the past two mornings, only to be deadened by ibuprofen. I am a little concerned for dancing on Saturday, though the painkillers do a good job of masking the business...Mags and I will BOTH be limping around if we're not better by then!
I think I ought to go find something to become excited about. What shall I do when I get home tonight? Go to sleep, maybe, but that would be a waste of an evening. I've been reading a depressing book, historical fiction about Lady Jane Grey. Interested bit of history, for sure, and a good store, not to be denied, but what a miserable life, at least as told by this author. I would think it would be cathartic, but sometimes reading stuff like that just makes you feel crappy too, not for having anything in common (Queen of England, anyone?), but just for feeling sorry for her, she a real person having lived and died young once in history.
I've been thinking some about England, in the silence of my cubicle today. I remember being there in the blue coldness of January, visiting crystal clear memories of the Tower, Warwick Castle, Stratford. I remember something I said -- I think I was even quoted on this in the newspaper or yearbook -- about there not being a single place in London that has not been bloodied in some way. Yet I don't think of the English as violent murderers. They are a people and time so removed...they are stories...being in those places, though, makes me feel funny for knowing it was all real.
I think in some ways we here in America, with our love of Renaissance Faires, are actually quite enthralled, even obsessed, with the bloody history of that place. I can't say it for everyone, though -- I sometimes wonder how many people at Faire actually know anything at all about the history of what they're supposed to be portraying, or who they say they are playing. I think people come for beer, boobs, flirtation, turkey legs, weapons, the spectacle. Jousting, too. Maybe others go to wear pretty clothes, or see others wearing pretty clothes. I guess it's all for fun, for what else would it be for? We're all too clean, I warrant, and too sparkly and too new in our clothes. I fear, but expect, I will never be able to willingly suspend my disbelief to imagine what it might have been like by being at a faire and believing the people. We're so far from it now.
Random ramblings, as usual.