When it come’s to lingerie, I’m not much for wispy pieces, no diaphanous gauze or teasing lace. It’s all too fragile, makes me feel obligated to act dainty and demure when I am neither. I’m drawn to bands and straps, to leather, to steel boning; lingerie that looks like cages, makes me feel like something fierce and barely contained.
The worst of the storms keep twisting around us. Disaster forecast, then only wind and not too much rain. The city shuts down. Last month, it was tornadoes. This time, flooding, lightning, high winds. I know how destructive they can be, I know better than to say it too loudly, here, but I have always loved storms.
This one only teased: the smell of water, a lightning show in the distance, a spattering of rain. Not the soaking chaos I crave, but enough to make me need to step outside.
I am watching (through radar, and pictures from friends and family) as storms hit my hometown almost daily. It’s the kind of weather I miss, and missed over my last visit (a rare summer week without much rain). It’s making me miss home, being on or in the water even when there is no storm. Even though the sun is dire threat to someone whiter than sand, I spend every moment of a visit I can spare soaking up the beach.
I’m trying out sinful Sunday for the first time. I sit outside as often as I can get away with it: the warm weather is much of what I love about the South, and I intend to enjoy as much of it as I can soak in.
The deck at my new house is considerably more private than the last one. I can’t really see a good reason not to take advantage of it, a little.