Notes to Self on a Sunday

Yesterday we made guacamole and watched Young Frankenstein on TCM. He played a video game and I read, finishing one book (The Soul of an Octopus) and beginning another (Lab Girl). I took the dog out and for only the second time in my life (surprisingly) had a stranger ask, “Who’s walking who?!” We roughhoused inside with the typically mellow dog until he lost focus, and I posted a photo of him on Instagram, having decided to try to start taking photos every day again, whether or not anyone sees them.

It’s slowly getting warmer, the sun out for longer periods of time (when it isn’t pouring rain), and every weekend sees more people emerging from the secret places they hibernated all winter. It’s not shorts weather yet, but it’s coming.

I’ve ordered a couple boxes from Stitch Fix, intrigued by the concept of having a stranger pick out clothes for me, which is a task I do not excel at. In my first order I kept a pair of (in my cheapskate opinion) absurdly expensive jeans and a sweater, and I await my second mystery order with cautious optimism. I’ve come to a point when I can no longer ignore the gathering stains and holes in my wardrobe, and something must be done about it, because I am in my thirties now, damn it, and I shouldn’t be dressing like a teenager or a bum.

By chance I found out my ex-boyfriend got married not terribly long after we broke up (specifically, after he broke up with me), and I’ll admit I had some odd feelings about that revelation. Still, they were muted feelings. It’s funny to realize that someone who was once so important to you could so quickly become a distant memory. Not an unpleasant one, but one that no longer feels relevant in the new life you’ve created for yourself. One in which there’s a great guy, a great dog, a great apartment, and lots of languid sunny weekends ahead to enjoy. When people say, “This too shall pass,” they’re not just blowing smoke. There are no truly static moments in life, no matter how they feel at the time. 

These are notes to myself, a reminder that things are pretty good, even if I sometimes get frustrated with what feels like a fatal lack of activity and progress. The quiet, simple times are no less significant than the times of upheaval. Sunday morning can be as full of life as Friday night.

Or, you know, what I’ve heard Friday night is like…