The Cinderella Syndrome

As the clock struck 12 last night, I felt like my world was becoming a pumpkin once again. Only instead of a glass slipper as a souvenir, I had only a pile of dirty clothes. For a moment I wondered if the trip had been real or whether I could have just imagined the whole thing.

Then I looked around my room at the poster from the horse festival in Cadenet and remembered our first venture out on the bikes in Provence, when we just stumbled upon this afternoon of fun.

I saw Rick Steves' book on Provence that guided us into all those little towns and told us when the market days occurred.

Finally I remembered the afternoon when I sat outside on a beautiful day with my friend Kris and sketched in Aquarelles. My artwork sucks, but it serves to remind me of the actual scene with the old tower with its red tile roof, all those beautiful trees, and the hills in the background.My body was struggling all night to make sense of time.

It was as though I was hearing the bells of the old church clock in Lourmarin chime on the hour, finally getting up at 5 AM when I should otherwise have been thinking about lunch.I have had to at least acknowledge the various reminders of responsibility being hurled at me all day long:

– Feed the dogs

– Practice the piano

– Re-read the The History of Love for the book club meeting on November 12

– Write up a final report for the Temple Micah High Holy Days

– Read 800 e-mail messages at work

– Plan my next vacation – Oh yeah, that one I am game to do!