tale as old as time.

a song to set the scene // beauty and the beast by roxane genot, jan pouska

It was a moment I’ll remember forever.

Even as I sit here: weeks later, jet-lagged, recovering from both pink eye and the flu, bags unpacked, trip to Italy completed.

The song plays, even now, the harmonious and familiar tune of Beauty and the Beast and I am instantly transported to the historic city of Florence.

I remember what I was wearing, where I was, and of course who I was with.

My gem and I had just gotten off the train. After the stressful journey of hand pulling our suitcases through the crowds on the cobblestone streets, we arrived at our home for the next week.

After piling into the too small elevator, we got out on the second floor and walked into the most incredible apartment.

Immaculately decorated in the typical Florentine Renaissance style, the building was dated from the 14th century, having existed even before the famous Brunelleschi domes were completed.

I was awestruck. It was… spectacular.

The art, the furniture, the brass, the cast iron heaters a la Tiffany, the views.

It also had an espresso machine, which we promptly took advantage of.

After bidding our host arrivederci, my gem and I took our two freshly made macchiatos, opened up the shutters, and sat down at the window.

Still awestruck, dumbfounded, and a little bewildered that this young couple from Alaska was currently seated in perfect viewing of THE DUOMO, a street artist began playing his violin.

And that’s when the sweet melodies of Beauty and the Beast came floating up through our open window.

The song plays, and even now, I can close my eyes and be seated in that savonarola styled chair, feel the Florentine wind on my face, the magic of that moment frozen in time.

“Are you having a moment?” my gem sweetly asked.

I nodded, a smile spreading upon my face as tender tears tumbled their way down my cheeks.

They say Florence is the birthplace of the Italian Renaissance, a period in time in which the arts and culture flourished.

That happened, without a doubt, as history can attest.

But I think a city so rooted in the birth of such a movement remains so, even all these years later.

The city is still flourishing, still inspiring, still awing those that pass through its streets and listen to the music that plays.

History doesn’t need to repeat itself here because in Florence, it never left.

It’s a tale as old as time.

And there I am, back in that chair, in the magnificent magical city of Florence.

the edge.

a song to set the scene // the edge of glory by lady gaga

The first time I ever read about edging was likely in a Cosmopolitan article.

A naiive curious young woman, I was no doubt peeking out from under my covers when I was supposed to be sleeping, absorbing all I could about this exciting new world and all of the experiences I had yet to be involved in.

Edging is described as the point just before orgasm, involving cycles of increasing sexual stimulation and then stopping just before…

The finale.

So it came as a surprise to me the other day when my gem told me that I was edging.

No, we weren’t in the bedroom or anywhere remotely close to being frisky, so you can imagine the look of shock I gave him when he used the word edging to describe how I was waiting until the very last possible second where I could no longer keep the heavy weight of my eyelids from closing.

Yes, I was doing all I could not to succumb to a nap, waiting instead until I couldn’t possibly bear another second with my eyes open.

Strangely, the word fit.

Within days, I experienced another moment of edging.

Again, I wasn’t in the bedroom or anywhere remotely close to being frisky.

This time, I was holding in pee.

(Yes I know this isn’t good for you)

I was at home, doing chores, basically everything else under the sun save for using the restroom when all of a sudden, I realized I couldn’t wait any longer. The urge was too strong.

So I’m on my way to the bathroom, am but a few feet away from the porcelain throne when all of a sudden, I sneeze.

Do you ever squeeze your knees when you sneeze? The jingle from the radio about uncontrollable leaks sang through my head.

Well, I squeezed when I sneezed and unfortunately I peeds.

Yep, you read that right: I peed me pants.

I did. I really did.

Not my finest moment, but it happens.

So yeah, apparently, I like to edge.

When I nap, when I use the restroom, when I’m just about to….

You get the picture.

It’s funny, I was talking with a friend the other day and they mentioned how long it’s been since I last wrote on my blog.

Besides being somewhat unispired, and a little depressed this winter, I guess I’ve just been waiting around for inspiration to strike, for something big enough to happen where I wouldn’t have any choice but to jump at the keyboard and finally let loose.

But if I’ve learned anything from edging the last few days, it’s that it’s not always about the finale, but about the process of getting there.

I’ve never been one to just focus on the big stuff. I take all the little things, all of the seemingly unimportant observations, experiences, and moments, and I find meaning and purpose to them.

While peeing my pants isn’t necessarily described as big news (albeit, it is rather comical that a grown woman brought it upon herself), it is a funny story, and I learned something new about myself.

Apparently, I like to live life on the edge.