How to Saturday.

By bonnie, 3 March, 2013

decide to go out to dinner earlyish. start getting ready around 4:30pm. take a long shower. take your time. take pictures of the dog. listen to music. don’t rush.
there is a place you like to walk to, two blocks up the hill. you can just show up. that’s it.

walk up the hill when it’s dark out but still bright. walk over train tracks and feel in love with your neighborhood. show up at the restaurant around 6:30 when it’s packed and don’t even mind that there’s a 45 minute wait because you are drinking gin and there is good music. you used to care about standing around the bar, taking up space and wondering if this place was too cool for you. you don’t anymore.

feel deeply in love with the person standing beside you. talk about the Spring.
talk about things you still want to learn. talk about being in love (again. still. so long) cheers to the favorite gin. cheers to the Spring. cheers to luck, as absurd a concept as how far you’ve made it when you never thought you could.
cheers to feeling too old to be cool. old enough not to care.

“if you’re feeling sinister” comes on the jukebox.
think of old friends. old apartments. perfect albums. and what you know to be true.
remind yourself you know who you are.

remember when you couldn’t enjoy food. remember when your hands shook holding forks in front of cute girls.
put your hand on her knee under the table, smile, and enjoy the fuck out of this amazing dinner.
drink a cocktail you hope was named after Buckminster Fuller.
share bourbon pecan pie for dessert.
tumble out into the night where it’s still Winter, but it smells like Spring is close. bundle up and walk really fast back down the hill, anxious to be home.

nap. nap because it’s a weekend and because the bed you bought 8 years ago for the move to New York is still (somehow. magically. impossibly.) the best bed ever.
get up and decide to go grocery shopping because it’s 10pm on a Saturday night and you have a  certain kind of quiet energy.
turn the music up to trembling volume in the car. sing even louder. listen to headphones in empty flourescent-lit aisles.
get all the food she likes.
prepare for the week on autopilot until you are back in the car.
decide not to go home yet.

turn the music back up and drive towards the skyline and the water. feel the bass buzz where your thigh rests against the car door. drive down one side of the river and turn around by the boathouse. the better view is on this side.
pick music you don’t have to stop to change. pick music you feel from inside your ribcage. music that makes driving feel enough like dancing.

remember yourself through many cities: count them 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 2 again, 5 again, 1 again. remember meeting 7 and wonder if it’s next. remember showing up in 8 where you are staying for a while. fold all your selves neatly back into this moment. sing your favorite part of that one song.

listen to it again.

say hello and goodnight to Boston.
turn towards home and feel in love with being this old.
feel like you maybe never before have known – this much – who you are

 

 

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