For a moment I forgot what year it is, and started to write “12” instead of “14” in my journal.
Sitting at the coffee shop, the sun is glorious and the birds are going crazy. Noisy fans from the coffee roaster downstairs and the roar of passing cars don’t dampen the paradisiacal aspect of the scene, but throw it into relief. A smell of roasting coffee beans, of old cracking plastic waking up in the sun.
My unwashed hair stands out stiff and goofy-looking from my forehead. I’m wearing leggings in public. I don’t care.
I imagine going to dinner with friends, sitting outside on the patio at Revel, drinking cold bubbly wine, eating spicy dumplings, and my heart soars.
Sometimes I anticipate meals with mingled excitement and dread. Excitement because, duh. Food is the best thing on earth, the greatest joy of my life, a transcendent pleasure that sings of timeless magic in the midst of temporal embodiment. Dread because each meal must come to an end. Because my gluttony often fills me with regret. Because part of me (the worst part) wants to have zero fat on my thighs.
But today, I feel only excitement. The sun is out. The air is warm. Ayla is sprawled peaceably under a bench. I like my job and don’t mind that I have to go. I’m really lucky.