Anyone who says I’m not romantic is clearly ignorant.  Now, I’m not romantic in the jewelry giving, bed of rose petals, talks about stuff kind of way (which is genetically impossible for anyone with a y chromosome); nor, clearly, am I romantic as in impractical (here comments from the peanut gallery are not appreciated).  I am, however, romantic in the adventuresome, idealistic, expressive sense.  (Think the opposite of classicism.)

An illustration?  I’ve always thought it would be simply wonderful to live in a tower.  How much more romantic can you get than that?  I’ve always thought that it would be simply marvelous to live above everything, in the world but not a part of it; to be removed.  A tower is just perfect, you know, one of those tall spindly ones where there’s one room at the top and nothing but a great shaft with stairs inside.  (Having rooms the entire height of the tower just strikes me as excessively materialistic and obscene.) 

Today, however, I for the first time reconsidered this ambition to live in a tower.  I have just returned from helping a friend and her roommate move from their sensible first floor apartment to a sadistically chosen (I’m certain) fourth floor apartment.  I never quite realized that stairs, when taken in huge number with heavy objects in one’s arms, are horrid things.  Which makes me view my spindly tower full of one precarious circular staircase in a very different light.  No wonder only wizards live in the things; you’ve got to have magic to get all your stuff up there.

Hence, as my magical powers are still developing, I will temper my romanticism with some practicality.  I will install a personal elevator.  Only guests will need to use the stairs.  

Yes, that feels quite acceptable—on more than one level. 

*****

I am tired.  Goodbye.