What makes a day that? Not monstrously difficult, not high on anxiety, not any of that. But disagreeable.
I have a habit of eating a regular breakfast. So regular is it that I have been made fun of just on the issue of its never wavering content: granola, with berries and a café crème at the side. In good weather, I will eat this outside. In bad weather, I will eat it at the table, with all appended formality.
What can I say about a day where I wake up at sunrise, but do not get to this routine until well after noon?
There are good moments. I talk to all sorts of good people who are in less saucy states – including my dad (in Poland) whose birthday it is today. Happy birthday, tatek! (He doesn’t key in to the Internet; in this one way, my parents are alike: neither likes nor reads Ocean)
At dusk, I have no photo, no story, no mindset for a post. Ed comes over. We talk about dinner in between snarky comments about how difficult the other one is theoretically capable of being (you’re a handful gets tossed around for emphasis). Finally, we settle on an online recipe that promises health, fulfillment and cost effectiveness. We go to the grocery store. Still, no clue as to a post or photo.
On our way back, we turn toward the condo and to the right of the road, we come across … what, a Brittany sailor? A Normandy wind surfer? What? I am flooded with memories…
He’s clearly practicing. Ed, get closer, please, get closer!
I think we freak him out, spinning there, behind him, in the Department of Transportation parking lot in Ed’s old and rusty Geo… I try to convey greetings and good cheer, but any words shouted from the Geo tumble into nothingness.
We come back to the condo, Ed and I, and I fix the recipe for our simple meal. Ed watches the Last of the Samurai and I think how at one point I may have found it a fascinating movie.