Another Wednesday in San Francisco. I sit alone with my book and notepad (per usual), and a cold glass of white wine. First sip tells me it’s too sweet to be the Sauvignon I ordered. Maybe a Pinot. Apparently I drink on Wednesday afternoons now. The only condolence I offer myself after this thought is: at least these days I drink to celebrate life, not to escape it.
I look around at all the “well-to-dos” and with a hint of imposter syndrome I find myself wondering: “why am I like this?” Then the thought is quickly dismissed by: “well, you like good food, you’re self made AND self sufficient, so why not?” No need for further analyzing. We get older, our tastes change, as do our expectations; with the opposite sex, our friendships, the food we eat, the jobs we acquire, our quality of life….the list goes on. Just means we are evolving. I can deal with that.
My perfectly garnished plate of Fusilli arrives. They say carbs are the enemy….I say send yours my way.
The waiter approaches me and makes a comment about it being refreshing to see someone writing, pen to paper, not fiddling with their phone. I do plenty of the latter…but back to the point. The written word amazes me. Reading soothes me, transports me, and moves me to write. Words connect people. Reading and writing in public has afforded me some of the best interactions of my life.
I’m 32 years old. I read, I write, I eat too many carbs, and I often laugh too loud. I love who I am…I wouldn’t change me for the world.