I want to be me at 35
Below is an example from my travel journal of the cheery monkey I was at 35, regardless of circumstance.
Here’s what was going on — I’d quit my job and left New York City to find a new home somewhere in America (somewhere in the warm part of America) (preferably somewhere artsy) (somewhere with a pool of available single women as I’d recently singled myself).
The old van I’d purchased for the trip was falling apart and looked to take more than half of my remaining funds.
Here I am, stranded in Phoenix, Arizona, walking the city as I awaited its repair:
My van is addled with ailments. It’s back in the shop. The costs mount. I was forced to walk three plus miles to a post office — what luck, what good fortune, what mega-fortune — to get to urban hike for miles, second day in a row.
Driving it all goes by too quickly to take in. Walking you are pumping life through you with every motion and every breath. You take in detail unavailable otherwise.
You stop at a thick palm, from which dangle clumps of blackish berries, resembling small grape clusters, and flitting from cluster to cluster is a weenie bird, red chested, reddish frontal visage, brown otherwise, choosing by criteria unknown to me certain of those berries, and at these it will pluck, and its force will cause it to swing on its cluster, and the dangling fruit it attacks sways away and back. The tree is its dessert, its market.
What mega-fortune! I arrive at the post office, everyone else worn out from the nothingness inherent in their everything, and I, active till now, am the only one enjoying the wait.
I want to be me at my best, like this. Isn’t that what we all want, to be the best incarnation of ourselves. And we’ve all been that at some point in our lives, which makes it easier to dial into . . . .
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