A Flair for the Dramatic.
I'm missing that characteristic I think. Melodrama is something I watch on screen and would love to perfect. Not that I haven't tried it out once or twice, in a frenzy of high emotion and unsettled nerves I have let loose some tirades.
There are a few I can recall distinctly. Once, I was so mad at my fiance (now husband) that in the heat of the argument, I yanked off my engagement ring and flung it furiously across the room, pelting him in the chest. That might have been followed by my stomping out of the room to pout, I don't rightly remember.
I'm sure I have slammed doors with the best of them, sworn a blue streak, and I have mastered the art of the eye roll and sarcastic retort.
What I'm really meaning to display is not deeper, just a few shades darker really. Like a dusky hue in my personality, the capability to ooze emotion in every action, each movement precise and timed to perfection, all culminating in the grandiosity of drama. I want to answer my husband's ridiculous question like Betty Draper, deep in thought in the passenger seat of my car, taking a drag on my cigarette and blowing the smoke coolly out the window, eyes piercing and brows doing the talking. I want my answer issued in that vapor, being drawn out slowly by the breeze and hovering like a wisp of the thought being conveyed. I want to never even utter the weighted words that would land like lead balloons, thought get my point across all the same.
I want to end a polite conversation with the neighbor lady, the one that never acknowledges our loss, with a momentary lapse in courtesy and calm. Instead of a tight lipped smile to her insensitive comments as I slowly sip my drink, I yearn to give in to the urge to show my inner angst with a smashing and public display. It would be so nice to scream and wail, whip my wine glass to the ground, watching it shatter spectacularly on the concrete, satisfying to watch the splatter pattern in blood red paint the patio floor.
I'm not made for tv drama though. Raised to watch my p's and q's and mind my manners, I can forgo the soap opera scenes for a controlled and simple sigh. What I lack in sensational commentary and mood music I hopefully make up for in other ways, perhaps with a classier style than high histrionics can lend.
I won't shy away from the colorful topics at hand, don't fret, but I can't say I'll be sharing all the intimacies of my life glazed in the overdone fashions I at times truly admire. My musings will be many, laced through with meditation, reflection, and if I'm lucky, insight. All of which, if we are all lucky, might make for an interesting read even without the cigarettes and wine.
There are a few I can recall distinctly. Once, I was so mad at my fiance (now husband) that in the heat of the argument, I yanked off my engagement ring and flung it furiously across the room, pelting him in the chest. That might have been followed by my stomping out of the room to pout, I don't rightly remember.
I'm sure I have slammed doors with the best of them, sworn a blue streak, and I have mastered the art of the eye roll and sarcastic retort.
What I'm really meaning to display is not deeper, just a few shades darker really. Like a dusky hue in my personality, the capability to ooze emotion in every action, each movement precise and timed to perfection, all culminating in the grandiosity of drama. I want to answer my husband's ridiculous question like Betty Draper, deep in thought in the passenger seat of my car, taking a drag on my cigarette and blowing the smoke coolly out the window, eyes piercing and brows doing the talking. I want my answer issued in that vapor, being drawn out slowly by the breeze and hovering like a wisp of the thought being conveyed. I want to never even utter the weighted words that would land like lead balloons, thought get my point across all the same.
I want to end a polite conversation with the neighbor lady, the one that never acknowledges our loss, with a momentary lapse in courtesy and calm. Instead of a tight lipped smile to her insensitive comments as I slowly sip my drink, I yearn to give in to the urge to show my inner angst with a smashing and public display. It would be so nice to scream and wail, whip my wine glass to the ground, watching it shatter spectacularly on the concrete, satisfying to watch the splatter pattern in blood red paint the patio floor.
I'm not made for tv drama though. Raised to watch my p's and q's and mind my manners, I can forgo the soap opera scenes for a controlled and simple sigh. What I lack in sensational commentary and mood music I hopefully make up for in other ways, perhaps with a classier style than high histrionics can lend.
I won't shy away from the colorful topics at hand, don't fret, but I can't say I'll be sharing all the intimacies of my life glazed in the overdone fashions I at times truly admire. My musings will be many, laced through with meditation, reflection, and if I'm lucky, insight. All of which, if we are all lucky, might make for an interesting read even without the cigarettes and wine.
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