I spent the Fourth of July on an alien planet of total relaxation. Eat, sleep, read. Repeat.
Morning coffee, the New York Times and berries on the porch overlooking the river, afternoons by the pool, farm stand suppers, evening ice cream cones, old movies, and long nights reading in bed as the midgies and moths hurled themselves at the window screens.
I slept more in two nights than in the previous two weeks combined. I also saw family I hadn't seen in decades, which was nice for continuity's sake and a connection to something other than the three-man caravan of my nomadic childhood. But mostly I just shut my mouth and slowed my brain, retreating into a sort of monk-like quiet and turning the Rubik's cube by cube.
Monday it was back on the road and back to business as usual. I hit the ground running in a city besieged by an ungodly heat wave: book shopping, milkshakes in Madison Square park and dancing, oh, dancing. Now here it is Wednesday-that-feels-like-Tuesday, and I'm back to square zero on the Sleep Dep scale, cursing the life choices that bring me to this Soviet-era gulag every day between the hours of 9 and 5.
Morning coffee, the New York Times and berries on the porch overlooking the river, afternoons by the pool, farm stand suppers, evening ice cream cones, old movies, and long nights reading in bed as the midgies and moths hurled themselves at the window screens.
I slept more in two nights than in the previous two weeks combined. I also saw family I hadn't seen in decades, which was nice for continuity's sake and a connection to something other than the three-man caravan of my nomadic childhood. But mostly I just shut my mouth and slowed my brain, retreating into a sort of monk-like quiet and turning the Rubik's cube by cube.
Monday it was back on the road and back to business as usual. I hit the ground running in a city besieged by an ungodly heat wave: book shopping, milkshakes in Madison Square park and dancing, oh, dancing. Now here it is Wednesday-that-feels-like-Tuesday, and I'm back to square zero on the Sleep Dep scale, cursing the life choices that bring me to this Soviet-era gulag every day between the hours of 9 and 5.
But I met a boy. Or—should I say—a boy I already knew (but not well) took a bit of an interest. Contrary to established tradition, I'm withholding analysis for future developments. For now, it was nice. That's all I'm gonna say.
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