Garden-Variety Girl
In an extended moment of humility and honesty today, I began thinking that I must spend most of my time entertaining my own delusions of grandeur. Like a tortured artist, many of my musings are concerned with the dilemma that nobody understands me deep down, that I am a complex mosaic of secrets. My music, my song, my tale, is one too profound for the faint of heart.
And then I was like, wait a sec, really? How come I think I'm so special? I'm actually like anybody else. Any other girl. I like surprises and fresh flowers and sunny days and chocolate and sparkly things and a pair of heels crafted of excellent leather. I like good hair days and smiling widely at others. I like laughing at stupid jokes and going really crazy over good dessert. I like cheesy love ballads and dancing with abandon and poking fun at celebrity antics. I even like wearing hats and the idea of a Sunday bonnet, were it not for the fact that modernly they are for old ladies who shop at Barneys and religious services. Although I'm pushing 30, I still fantasize about running across a meadow singing, "The hills are alive..!" I clap my hands in delight more often than I'd like to admit.
So, the jig is up. I am sitting pretty right at the top of that bell curve.
A Couple of Birds, A Stone
Maybe it’s something I would not have understood had I not moved away – but I feel like there is such a large part of me that resides in San Diego, and every time I go back I feel that I am accessing that part of myself once again. I always drive back up north feeling gratified by all the people and places I was able to visit. A sense of social accomplishment, if you will.
So, yesterday was another success in that I was able to join a few different parties with a few different groups. The hours crept on, and I broke my own curfew. But they kept playing the bumpin’ tracks and drinks were easy to come by. Just as I had my bag slung over my shoulder heading towards the exit, the bartender caught us. “Free shots for you girls if you’ll go up and dance in the booth.”
Well, it wasn’t really a booth. It was more like a holding pen, elevated above the rest of the club and smack dab in the center of the dance floor. I looked up at the renowned Typhoon Saloon VIP stage, so fabled in all my years of San Diego residency, and I quickly weighed the positive effect such a move would have on my already swelling ego.
It was in the center. It was high up. And I would be able to dance.
I put my purse down.
But, I’m ahead of myself. Should I begin with the 4 hours of maddening traffic that I suffered with other Memorial Day travelers? But traffic for me is just same shit, different day. I made a detour to San Clemente and saw Natalia’s showroom-pretty house. Then, down to San Diego, to see another beautiful beachside home. Natalia and I walked by the Mission Bay Aquatic Center and her old apartment, the scene of many spirited parties, and we reminisced about my birthday in 2003 when we all had a kayaking race in the Bay.
I finally got to meet Lindsay’s parents. I loved chatting about Portland and Seattle, and they admonished me, as any loyal Pacific Northwesterner would, about not turning into the California expatriate invading their Washington utopia. I told them that I had the California Bar to worry about for the next decade, so they could rest assured.
We went from the bayside vacation home to an Ocean Beach hideaway. The house looked more like a 70’s museum, and as we came upon it people were diving into pools and dipping into hot tubs a la Boogie Nights. I thought about my strappy bone-colored heels and the dress I had on, and tried to avoid the splash. I politely declined the burnt burgers and dogs offered to me. Ghetto-fabulous Jennie took me aside, and whispered, “This lifestyle –
I don’t live it, but I will indulge.” That was the beginning of many inspired quotes she’d declare across the night.
She also gave me a ton of shit for moving back to LA. I complimented her many achievements across the year, including the great momentum with which she seems to acquire real estate. "Oh, girl," she waved casually, "thas' just an equity line o' credit... so how do you like LA?"
I didn't even bat an eye. "I love it," I said. The words sat there with satisfying finality. I realized I meant it whole-heartedly.
There was a hyperactive man-child running across the yard in neon Speedos, and four people crammed in a makeshift hot tub so small I thought of the old “Rub-a-dub-dub” poem. I began to consider an efficient exit strategy, when Cirrus suggested that we go to Typhoon Saloon. Peer pressure reared its guilt-inducing head, and I relented.
Then we were all packed in my ride, wailing out Mariah’s current number one hit. We made a stop-over at Cirrus’s. The first thing I did was run to her kitchen to check out her KitchenAid mixer in robin’s egg blue. “Oh,” I sighed in disappointment, “You have the Artisan, and it’s 300 watts.” I thought dejectedly about my new KitchenAid Classic in white waiting at home, which supplied a pitiful 250 watts. “But it will do all the same things,” Cirrus reassured me. Then I walked through Cirrus’s house and saw how crisply clean and Spartan it all was. Everything was either beech-toned or white, with no clutter, excess, or item not placed in a 90-degree angle. I vowed that upon my return to West LA, I would whip my apartment back into shape.
By now, the girls were way loopy and in search of even more booze. En route to Typhoon, Jennie pleaded for better music in the car. I played the Killers and she unleashed a torrent of disapproval. “Is
this your favorite?” she asked with thinly veiled disgust. “Don’t you have any Fiddy or G-Unit?” Jennie expected the thug life out of more than just herself.
“I didn’t upload it to my iPod yet,” I lied.
“Girl, I
liked you. But thas’ it.” I tried to play something with a harder edge, but could only come up with Destiny’s Child for her.
Typhoon was every bit the good time I both remembered and have tried to avoid in recent months. It still amazes me how unsmoove guys can be. One “John” from Newport Beach was so unacceptable that I told him off in a manner I hadn’t used since the third grade. And as I was nearing my swan song, my last dance, my eleventh hour, my final hurrah, we received the invitation to shake our tail feathers on center stage. Madonna's "Holiday" was the way to end on a high note.
And as I pulled onto Santa Monica Boulevard, hours later, "Bye bye, baby," Morrissey sang, "bye bye."
I Only Think of You...
Every day is a gift. To receive cookies in the mail. To hear encouragement from old friends, who fought the good fight (yes, Amy, that's you!) and hope you will, too. To hear stories of love lost, and struggles survived, from the most unexpected personalities. To celebrate degrees conferred. To look forward to movie dates. To meet friends of friends and plan on meeting again. To sit around with your roommate, and then go off someplace on a whim. To make plans for the weekend. To receive invitations. To read a book you first read when you were seven. To be pleased by the smallest things.
At Last! When in Rioja
I
just finished unpacking my suitcase from my trip two weeks ago. Is there any explanation for my procrastination? One is that Dozer had been using my suitcase as a bed and I was loath to dissemble so lofty a sanctuary.
It was my first time to Denver and probably the perfect way to cap off a series of excellent weekends. I thought guiltily this most recent weekend that it was obvious kismet that all the luxuriating would come to some abrupt halt. But we are reminiscing about good times, so enough of my boohooing!
Paige and I met up within ten minutes of our planes landing at the Denver airport, giddily greeting each other, but mostly patting ourselves on the back for our excellent planning. It was a happy reunion, especially when others around us smiled in amusement at our girliness. And then we saw Matt and Jaden's familiar faces. Our little boy was so well-grown and for a moment, I thought longingly of the time when he had chubby little legs and teetered a bit when he walked. Instead he moved briskly and chatted animatedly, and Paige and I were glad that he hadn't forgotten us.
The Denver landscape caught me by surprise, having always expected to see water in some direction. But I kept saying, "wide open spaces," aloud and in my head. I had that rare thrill, that I look forward to most on trips, of seeing new terrains, and remembering every detail to log as some frame of reference in a subsequent travel conversation. The freshness of the air reminded me of Portland, a pleasure to draw in deeply. Funny how LA smog will make the simplest things seem precious.
At the Cherry Creek Grill, food tasted fresher, lighter, more satisfying. Mel told me that the greater appetite may have had something to do with the altitude, and I imagined landing back in LA with a horrible paunch. And then we had some ridiculous Oreo cookie dessert of which the marriage of chocolate cookie, vanilla ice cream, and chocolate espresso sauce was dizzying perfection. Matt was right.
We were easily set up in the poshest place in town. Mel knew all the ins and outs of the Luna Hotel, and Paige and I were coddled like Britney Spears in London. I've always believed that the secret to happiness is merely a fast internet connection, a flat-screen television, and a down comforter. Plus, there was a French coffee press in there which I put to immediate use.
The first Denver dinner was sushi-grade ahi lightly seared, Israeli cous cous and asparagus tips, prepared by our very own Johnson & Wales expert. (Earlier in the afternoon, Matt had driven us past the campus and I peered curiously at the red-brick campus, imagining a glorious colony of industrial-strength steel ranges within.) Fancy vittles, but it was all so cozy in the little house on Jersey Street. A delicate dinner still brought about indelicate conversation, and over wine we rehashed a year's worth of savory gossip.
The Oreo cookie, the dinner, the wine... I was about to conk out, but Paige galvanized me to get the heels on so we could trounce through downtown a bit. Denver is peppered with one-name hotspots: Tryst, Mynt, Hush, etc. Indoor smoking was still alive and well, prompting me to cautiously enter each club like Paris Hilton at a Big Lots!. We found ourselves at Mynt -- and though it was early in the evening, its patrons were already foundering to sloppy-drunk. I remember casting many panicked looks at Paige. Maybe Grey Goose L'Orange Cosmos could save the night, and they nearly did. Until we had to witness the dance-off.
The dance-off. They occupied a good ten square feet of the already cramped dance floor. The first self-appointed contestant was a tautly muscled Euro whose stonewashed jeans sported the largest buckle I have seen outside of Nashville, whose tie-dyed shirt was likely painted on, and whose greasy and loose locks conjured up distressing images of Fabio. The second was a white boy hoping to be from the wrong side of the tracks, but whose crisp, blue-striped JCPenney shirt betrayed his gritty facade. The music blared and they were juiced, and pretty soon we all had to take a cautionary step back lest we be injured by their enthusiasm. Paige and I reluctantly took turns identifying moves we had last seen during Hammertime. It was then that I realized all that I had learned from VH1: Behind the Music, because I was able to pinpoint a time when Bel Biv Devoe, NKOTB, and Brian Austin Green had made an obvious impact on our society.
Out of traumatization, we made a hasty exit. But we chatted happily about future trips we would love to take to Colorado, and the heady anticipation of spending the morning at day spa. The next morning, we found ourselves at a Victorian house just outside of downtown that now served as The Woodhouse Day Spa.
Sometime into the thirty-seventh minute of my massage, I relaxed. I let it all go away. I made really corny peace with things I could not change. I made cornier peace with the things that I would never change, always remembering Sheryl Crow's wisdom. "It's not getting what you want, it's wanting what you've got."
And then afterward, I answered everything with, "I don't know, I'm so damn relaxed." I think Mel and Paige were amused with how comfortable I became in the changing room, and how I began to full-on style my hair with a blow-dryer and every which product offered. Hey, su casa really es mi casa.
It was just one of those perfect, perfect days. There was the day spa afterglow, Thai food, Starbucks mochas, and lounging around on Mel's microfiber faux suede couch, chit-chatting about this that and the other. I thought, a year is a long time, but not between your girlfriends.
But a promising evening lay ahead. And we were welcomed at Denver's bistro du jour, Rioja, having been told we were "
so lucky" to be able to score a table. It was a no-brainer what kind of wine we would choose. "When in Rioja," I quipped. "That's the name of your blog!" Mel said. My mind immediately began writing it.
I didn't know that clams and chorizo went so well together. We weren't sure, either, if quail was meant to be served rare. There was fresh pasta on the menu so I had to have it. Right before the semifreddo came, the gentleman in the booth behind us asked a question he had been keeping in for at an hour at least. "What's your story?" he asked, trying to convey a jaunty air.
"Uh, my story... huh?" (Jigga what?) I bit my lip. "Sorry, were we chatting too loudly?"
"Well, I saw you earlier at the bar, and wanted to ask you, what's your story?"
I thought about my story. It could have been a good one, but the truth was, we were all just baffled. I thought "what's your story" was only uttered in combination with a gold chain and polyester suit. Then we looked just past this gentleman's head and saw the approving smile of his mother across the way. Oh, it's a pretty state of affairs when your wingman is your mother.
Next up: Martini Ranch, Denver chapter. Matt was working and had arranged for us to get a little VIP love. The downstairs and the upstairs crowds were equally kind to us, and by now the wine and I were easy bedfellows. There were a few choice partners on the dance floor, and I let the music carry me away. Mel's friend Francesca joined us, and with the courage of Syrah I blathered on and on in the language of poets and gangsters.
Sometime later in the night, the three of us collapsed on Luna Hotel's plush linens, watching infomercials and footage of Tom Cruise smothering Katie Holmes. And then there were two.
Between ex-Moot Courters, a hard night of partying is generally followed by a crisp morning of responsible clean-up and quick mobilizing. It was all so seamless and in no time at all, we were downstairs wheeling away our carry-ons and waving goodbye to our Luna Hotel friends. A breakfast burrito and an espresso brought much needed clarity for travel back to the coast. And then, Paige power-steered the car to the little house on Jersey Street, as we relived our weekend sights on the ride back.
The only thing missing was little Jaden. But we said goodbye to our hero Matt, who apparently had not been driven crazy by entertaining two California guests who were overly skilled in reaping every luxury. And then it was off, off and away... I took last looks at the mountainscape, breathed the air again in gulps. I remembered how it felt to play soccer with Jaden in the backyard. I thought about how hard you actually have to work to have simple, lovely things, but also how with the right ingredients, it doesn't feel like work at all.
It was all enormously gratifying. Right down to sitting languidly with Paige at her terminal and laughing heartily over bullshit. Our planes departed ten minutes within each other, so we congratulated ourselves yet again. She had on great espadrilles and a flowing, colorful skirt, and was every bit the perfect picture of the seasoned California traveler as she retreated towards her plane.
At my terminal, I listened to Sheryl Crow.
I'll make the rules up, as I go.
Same Bat Time, Same Bat ChannelI don't know if I was afraid of the stigma attached with taking the Bar multiple times. Twice seemed kosher, routine. And I know of people (
not JFK, Jr.) who have taken it even beyond a few times. I don't know if I just felt guilty again, or embarrassed, or stupid. But right now, I just feel dead.
I have had some great conversations about this, even if I have been stunned for the last 22 hours. I have laughed and cried. I have had hope and despair. And right now, I don't know if I want to just sit here and be the hollow, uninteresting mass that I am, or if I should step outside into the warm sun and compel gaiety and normalcy. The only thing that feels right is being honest with myself.
To me, it is like the frustration where your friends can get to World 6 in Super Mario Bros., and you can't. How come they can, but you can't? It's off-base, and not a skill expected of the average individual, and not even a marker of success. But you've already started playing the game and you'll be damned if you can't get to that level, too. That's what it's like. A Nintendo control and sore thumbs.
Anyway, if I haven't called you yet, it isn't because I don't want to talk to you, or talk about it. I am, you know, just soaking it in right now.
In PerspectiveOf the many uplifting conversations I have had today, this one is especially endearing.
(The names have been omitted to protect nothing in particular.)
Friend says: tonight is your night!!!
Karen says: Friend, I'm petrified, and I feel awful. I just know I didn't study enough, I know I failed, and I don't want to face other people.
Friend says: don't defeat yourself, young lady!
Karen says: Friend, the repeater passage rate is so low
Friend says: who cares? I think you will pass! keep your head up! ... I am going to think of you tonight, my dear. this is a time where every woman must stand alone, but I'm confident in you....
Karen says: You're so funny. Friend, I am just so depressed by the low bar passage rates. I just don't get why Feb's passage rate is so low.
Friend says: pass rates are aggregate ie no apply to individs
Karen says: It was so easy for you and [other friend who passed]. They don't want us to pass in February. They don't want us to pass.
Friend says: they do!
Friend says: i do
Karen says: i know you do, boo
Karen says: i'm going to lunch now with my neighbor. i'll talk to you later.
Karen says: thanks for everything
Friend says: youre the best
The numbers never really tell the truth. I have to learn to just let go. Either way, a little later, it will be a positive result.
The Play of Things
I just saw
Crash, as any good card-carrying Angeleno would. The movie struck a strange combination of being both horribly honest and exaggerated. The LA stereotypes they used were spot on, but too pronounced to truly resemble reality. Anyway, the movie made me want to crawl into my covers and just cry. Not about anything in particular. But it was unsettling to think about the ugly things in the world out there. I walked out of the Crest Theater thinking, well, I guess the movie says, we are all racist assholes, to some degree. And it still has a hopeful message that our consciences generally get the best of us.
Dozer had another appointment this morning. He has far outlived what Dr. Bak told me that depressing morning in November. In fact, you would never know he's sick, and every time I look into his round brown eyes I feel a sense of pride, of peace. He sees the best doctor in town, definitely what I would want for my little bear, but which I still wryly observe every time we pull up to the shiny building where the doctor is and every time I cut out a check that is half my pay.
I have been tense about all kinds of things lately. Also saw
The Amityville Horror last night -- needless to say, not like tonight's movie fare -- which I appreciated for the tongue-in-cheekiness, if little else. We went to Tuk Tuk afterward and I was unexpectedly pleased to be able to check the place off of my must-try list.
I have so much to say about Denver. It was easily one of the best weekends, and you know how impressive that can be! Coming soon:
When in Rioja.
I Love It I Hate It
I love LA. I hate LA. I love LA. But I got a parking ticket this morning. So I hate LA. I remember the days when my parking transgressions would generate a $30 penalty. No harm, no foul, just means skipping out on two Koo Koo Roo dinners. But this morning, I was met with a whopping $45 fine for being a mere 30 minutes late, which is the cost of a bikini wax or a facial. And the street cleaner was nowhere in sight. Angelenos, parking is officially the biggest racket in town.
I think I may be the laziest anxious person out there. Anxiety is usually compounded with restlessness and activity. But I am anxious just sitting on my ass. Granted, there are definite issues on my mind, that materialize in my dreams at night, that join me in my car rides. I want things to fall into place; even if things are going so smoothly now. And I carry a little guilt every day knowing that there is more I can do to hasten things falling more quickly, patly, into place.
But, the good news is, there are few things that a good song cannot cure for me.
And it's you and me in the summertime,
We'll be hand in hand down in the park.
With a squeeze, and a sigh, and that twinkle in your eye,
And all the sunshine banishes the dark.
- The SundaysI can't wait to get on that plane tomorrow, with my Schott's and my French book.
One Summer in LariThey took me as one of their own. "And they arm me, to defend my values and virtues, against life's unpredictable assailants." I wrote this that summer.
E' restero', per non lasciarti piu'.
Solid
There are a few times in my life that stick out in my mind daily. I think of Italy every single day. Early mornings always remind me of April 2001 and the UCLA shuttle. And there are people that, in some capacity, my mind will devote a few seconds to each day wondering how they are and how they would react to something I've seen. These days, I wonder how I will look back on this time in my life.
The other night in French class, the word "clarinet" came up. (Or as they say in French, "clarinette".) My mind wandered to when I was 14 and my trusty plastic Yamaha clarinet was such an important part of my daily life. I remember how proud and pleased I was with myself when I made first chair that year. I remember how much I had practiced and what a big deal it was for me; and how nervous I was whenever the whole band was tuning and I had to play the B-flat concert, hoping the pitch wasn't off because of my embrasure or because I had a cheap clarinet. I remember taking pride in sitting in that plastic chair right next to our conductor, with a feeling of importance so symptomatic of adolescence. And the few times I had solo moments, how equally thrilled and petrified I'd be. Eventually, I quit band. And we gave that clarinet to a family friend who was starting out in eighth-grade band, and then he quit band. And in French class we started talking about some other word, so the memory lapsed, too.
My clarinet is probably sitting in a garbage dump somewhere. Or maybe it's in that kid's closet, filled with mildew and scrapes from the musicmaking of two different teens. I wonder a lot now about the objects and pasttimes I have left behind. I wonder if those toys miss me, as much as I miss them.
I've had a few excellent conversations today and it's not even noon yet. We've chatted about the inns of British Columbia, power lunches with sports agents, dating as a tennis match, my backup career hosting a home and garden show. It promises to be a good day.
Mon anniversaire 05
It's a rainy day and a Monday, but no reason to be down. I am just enjoying slinking around, letting my body to recover from the weekend's effects. As long as the phone doesn't ring, I can keep flying under the radar.
The birthday party on Friday was tres excellent. I opted for a Strawberry Shortcake theme, right down to my Brown Derby cake from Junior's. They screened Strawberry and Custard on top and it had 26 candles. It feels good to be 26 -- like a time to make decisions count, and to really consider pacing. (Although, ironically, not a time to abandon childish cartoon characters.) All through law school I felt young -- not just because the material was usually over my head, but because the average law student there had taken a year or two off. I sort of welcome the added responsibility, even if it's only perceived.
Not to wax on and on about the good fortune of friends and weekends in yet another post, but I could not have been more pleased with all the generosity that made for another memorable birthday.
Cette anne, la creme de la cremePink orchids. In a lilac vase, very modern and the first thing to greet my twenty-sixth.
Fresh fruit. Never got any in the mail before, but the scent when you open the box is unlike any other.
Martha Stewart and Magnolia. A year's worth of excellent baking is ahead.
The Naked Lunch. The funniest gift by far, not surprisingly conceived by Chad's wickedly clever mind. Jose said the book sucks. Well, now I will never miss another question on who wrote it.
Visitors from afar. Some having driven in excess of 120 miles, and bearing gifts.
Florence revisited. Going from Chi-town to Chi, Mel O. and I rehashed memories of the best summer ever over foie gras and lychee martinis.
The trickling in of well-wishes. Having enacted a rule that anybody living at least 1000 miles away from me is privy to the Ballpark Figure Birthday Phone Call, I got belated greetings as late as today. It's the thought that counts!
Chocolate, strawberries, and 501 French verbs! Party bags, streamers, birthday hats, all the frills... guess who 1) didn't have a childhood, and 2) is now taking French classes?
Spicy Szechwan. My parents never disappoint where our Sunday lunches are concerned. Although, this weekend we ate with their fattest friend and we didn't get to eat as much.
This picture says it all: random guy buys us all shots; Reyna's party favor successfully rolled out; and a comprehensive view of my favorite dress on its last official outing.
Merci beaucoup, everybody. I love you guys.
"Nobody lives to be a hundred, anyway."
I think of recent conversations where friends predict upcoming "quarter-life crises" for most of our set. I think that if such a crisis were to technically occur, they should have happened five or six years ago, judging generously by the average age that we all make it to. As one of my friends pointed out, nobody lives to be a hundred, anyway.
I will be getting on in years, to be commemorated once again this week. I find it appropriate that a year ago, friends feted me with cake and a tiara, and a year later, I headed back to celebrate these same friends and their wonderful company.
I had another marvelous weekend. Sometimes I don't get how lucky I am, or how happy I can be. Do I just have such low expectations that anything can turn out great? But I know that I am functional enough member of society to know the difference. I thought today -- on birthdays and being happy -- that the gift of getting older is having more happy memories to look back on.
So I was back in San Diego, with Natalia at the funhouse on Bonus Street. I took last looks at the magazine-worthy decor of the place, because it was her last night there. Later, Air Conditioned looked like a shady dump from the outside, deceptively hiding the hip little Shangri-La within. How do sardines party? Try that North Park joint if you're into being shoulder to shoulder with other barflies. But the difference in San Diego, which I rely on, is the lack of self-consciousness that handicaps an otherwise good LA bar experience. There was Cirrus, so terribly du jour. "I read your blog as if it's InStyle!" (Aww,
bella!) And as the night got more interesting, the little oddities added up... unable to escape guys of a certain name, of a certain profession. A neat little moment where a drink was bought for me from across the bar. And on my way out, Mr. Brightside remixed as if to send me out on a high note.
So then Natalia and I dashed off to the old place where we would always get Chinese food so late, it's early. It was just two blocks from my old digs and I felt like I had never left. I saw the new Italian place that had once been an Asian-owned bagel joint that had once been Bruegger's before Einstein Bros. ousted it from business. I thought a lot about Third Avenue and my many days exploring the blocks with curiosity and buoyancy. And then one last night in that blue-striped Martha Stewart bed. I was awakened at 6:30 am by Natalia's roommate, who not too soberly screamed in surprise that I was there. She retreated to the living room, and I willed myself to get back to sleep despite the booming house music that seemed inappropriate at that hour.
The next morning, Adrian whisked us to the crawfish boil in Coronado. I thought about high tea and the soft sand of the Hotel Del as we zipped along the bridge. There were a sea of shirtless drunkards and steaming cauldrons of seasoned shellfish. I blithely sipped on beer and tried to avoid the sunburn, but ultimately just gave in to the gluttony when we all attacked the crawfish dumped onto our table. Ian made fun of the disgusting pile of heads and tails I created in front of me, mixed up with potatoes and corn cobs. I threw my head back laughing, and noticed how clear and blue the sky was.
Peeling crawfish is hard work, so Po took me to the nail salon. We gabbed about dumb things and smart things, among them celebrity hookups and San Diego's best attorneys. We fromped around Pacific Beach and wound up in her hot tub as a little energy boost before heading downtown to On Broadway. It was unusual that we sent more than one dish back to the kitchen, but we know what we like. The night's events reaffirmed for me that a little more volume in your hair and an extra inch in your heels can go a long, long way. I strutted my stuff. Full of ulterior motives.
This morning, Advil helped immensely. Erik awaited us at the Broken Yolk and it was a longer breakfast than I've had in quite a while. Po put so much butter and salt on her toast that Erik dryly commented, "You'll have a heart attack in five years," but then quickly retracted it because it belied his gentlemanly ways. Maybe we'll all die of heart attacks, between all the eggs and cheese consumed this morning.
The sun was relentless, so we spent it doing the things we did best in law school. I felt so at ease and remembered every road, every spot, and details about a different life. And then, at a very certain point in the day, I thought about places much more dreary that I had actually longed for -- and how silly it seemed now. I felt a sense of calm in realizing that the things you most want really are usually well within reach.
Tomorrow, I begin French lessons. Today, I rest blissfully in the idea that I am at a stage in my life where I enjoy weekends like never before. Even this shredded wheat I'm eating tastes better than I expected. Who needs a hundred years to live, if you can do so much in just two days?
