Here’s a not so smart idea: having a cappuccino with dinner and then deciding to watch the second to last episode of Bloodline, Netflix’s dreamy new series, at 11:00pm. Because then, at midnight, when you only have one episode left - the one that will tie the entire first season together and drop a great big clue as to what’s coming in the second season - you can’t go to bed. You have to keep going. Until 1:00 in the morning.
I had a moment last night - er, this morning - when I grappled with whether or not to hit play on the final episode and push my bedtime further back than I’ve done in a long while. I usually play it fairly safe in terms of bedtime, always cognizant of the next day’s list of appointments, errands, tasks and whatnot (not to mention the always-alluring prospect of getting cozy under the covers with a book), but this seems to be the week of exceptions. I felt mildly rebellious clicking on the link for the show; I knew it would mean I wouldn’t be able to spring out of bed as energetically as usual, but rationalized it would be better to wrap it up sooner rather than later so I could get on with my life. Instead of ending my days with a good book and the sound of the owls outside my window, for the last couple of weeks I’ve been plugging in headphones and letting all those juicy internet rays, or whatever they’re technically called, bathe my face in light before going to sleep. I became obsessed with the show within the first five minutes of starting it, and as much as I’ve loved it I’m glad it’s over. I’m ready to get back to my books and I miss the late-night chatter of our neighborhood owls.
We all went to see the new Cinderella yesterday afternoon, and all I can say is that I would have loved to have been a costume assistant on that set. Well, it’s not ALL I can say - I can also tell you I loved it and it got me weepy in more than one scene. Everyday I become a bigger sap - getting teary over text messages, memories, Disney movies and old photographs. It’s as if my ability to rein in those particular emotions grows weaker as I grow older. Perhaps somewhere in the deep recesses of my subconscious, my wiser self realizes the futility - and unnecessary-ness - of trying to keep them at bay. Because what are they really, but evidence of an overflowing heart, proof that joy is available everywhere.