Beautyscopes

By Amber Roniger

I’m not one to go in much for ‘perfection.’ Nor am I much of a fetishist. But were I ever to ever put a month up on a pedestal, titillate it with a little slap ‘n tickle and a lick of toe worship, May would be my muse, hand’s down. May is a sexy freakin’ month, don’t you agree? Downright holy, most glorious time of year – hanging outside in the sunshine without running screaming from hideous torrents of torpid winds, mind-numbing, skin-peeling awfulness, May is in the business of miraculous deliverance. Alfresco time for sublime dining till nine in the pm. Life bustles everywhere, busting its seams – sidewalk cafes, cheery afternoons on the sundeck, soccer games late Friday night with mucho caliente Latin loverboys (oye, papi). Girlfriends sending sentimental e-mails of dorky, photos-of-roses Power Point presentation in Russian text (but still pretty to look at). Anarchy, freedom, acting the freak is May’s illustrious adage… an anthem even this wry rebel can get behind. Let us all together pledge our mutual affection and adoration for the sacrosanct month of May. Phantasmagorically gorgeous, clever, witty and wise, I’d gladly give up my autonomy to be May’s love slave, cater to its every whisper, bow down to its every whim. ‘Viva la revolucion,’ quoth I, forge forward into summer and take out the well-worn trash – April is so last month! (Celestial shout-out to my man, Kurt V., may you rest in peace you wackadoo-insano, appointing asterisks for *ssholes in novels, looking down from esteemed writer’s heaven, goddess bless ‘ya, dude.) And to all you accountants, with your eyes still glazed, mayday-mayday-mayday! Take a moment to breathe in, kick back and try to relax before the inevitable post-tax-season-traumatic-dramatic-stress disorder malfunction kicks in. Fight the trauma by raising an extra-frosty mug on the fifth, a hip kick-off to a month-long beer-fest in reverence to the fight for independencia, a holiday all religions can agree on! (Do crack open an extra one, to toast Beatrix Giselle, my pumpkin of a one-year old niece!) Hoist up that stein way over your head and clinkie together, here’s to our successful common emergence on the fairer end of another rotten NY winter… we survived one more! Herculean high-five to the entire city! (Smack)

Originally published May 2007

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  
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