Last Saturday, Charrow and I were lounging in prospect park when a butterfly skimmed over my hair and settled onto my stomach. For the purposes of not repeating the word butterfly (because it's such a floofy word and it makes me feel like I should be writing a discourse on woodland creatures), let's call my new friend Horace.
Horace stuck around for a good 2 or 3 minutes, resting on my light blue t-shirt and periodically sticking out his proboscis (or tongue, as I called it at the time). It was a remarkable sight. The slightest breeze jostled his wings and made the thousands of hairy projectiles covering his midsection ripple in the wind.
I have no idea what was so appealing about my outstretched stomach, but the visit was a welcome distraction from the self-pity I felt as I watched the pockets of sporting activities around me. My foot is nowhere near 100% (at least not when it comes to exercise), so going to the park to get some fresh air results in a mixture of severe jealousy and relaxation. I'm still swimming at the YMCA, but the summer camps have made it more complicated than I care for. Around 9am every day, the meager selection of lanes gets compacted even further to accommodate the 20 rambunctious campers that have apparently been waiting all their life to hear their voices echo off the walls in the pool area. Being a mediocre swimmer means I stick to the 2 slowest lanes depending on just how slow the "extra slow" lane is running. When the lanes are combined, all the people in the fast lanes get integrated with the slow swimmers. I have a hard enough time breathing without the stress of trying to stay out of Joe Speedo's way so I usually relinquish my spot and walk back to the Naked Place grumbling about those damn kids. It makes me feel geriatric in more ways than one.
Just when I was getting used to my winged visitor, he flitted off into the breeze and that was that. Until yesterday. I was sitting in prospect park, wearing the same light blue t-shirt, taking my shoes off, and as I shifted my socks from one hand to the other, a butterfly plopped down on my right hand. I have a feeling it was Horace, though I can't say for sure. But how many human hopping butterflies could there be in the exact same patch of grass that I had frequented less than a week before?
Horace came back twice in the time that I was sitting there reading and lusting after other people's dogs. On his first return trip, he landed on my left shin, tickling the hairs on my leg, which I have to tell you was too similar to how I imagine a spider would feel if one were to live long enough to crawl onto my person. But I kept my eye on Horace, willing my brain to think "butterfly" not "spider." His final visit was a brief perch on my blanket that I ruined by reaching for my camera. Every week my photography teacher at SVA says, in an attempt to keep us from taking pointless pictures, "remember, no butterfly collecting!" so I couldn't resist trying to get a shot of Horace. Alas, he wasn't game for my portrait taking.
**the picture for today looks washed out compared to the flickr version. anybody know why?