new old

How stupid am I? My new birthday boots, heels even, in my excitement find themselves on my feet, bounding through piles of freshly dropped snow. They'll never make it to the bus stop and then...and then...a connecting bus even, even, even. He didn't buy them for me. I bought them for myself. He gave me a book. And a CD, that he'd like to borrow and burn, if that's alright. But now I'm 33 and I'm confused by this, why I would wreck something I love so much, and equally slowing myself down in the freshly dropped piles of snow. I stare at my reflection in the window, sure that there is a bruise, a blemish; some physical evidence of why I choose to be unhappy. My mind reels, and in fact my face stares back at me, taut and glowing, perfect, individual snowflakes in slow motion around me, dropping gently on my hood. Will my side ponytail hold up? No time to dwell...as the bus blows by; clearly I am unseen.