I’ve known Bob since the smoking section in Perkin’s in ’97. He and his friends were menaces to us late night waitresses. Endearing menaces. They liked to say awkward things to which we would just smile and nod. Bob was always, and will always be a gray haired, middle-aged gentleman. He hasn’t changed a wink.
Bob drives a city bus, and when I started working at Nelly’s café I would give him day old muffins while he dished out flirtatiousness on my ride home. In a nutshell, Bob loves to scream around on his Harley on a great day, and when it drizzles he is a regular at all his favorite hot spots. You’ll never meet a nicer guy than Bob, and apparently he felt the same about me, the skinny, smiley blonde. He snapped his fingers when he heard I was getting married. I’m not worried. There are plenty of other nice girls for him to buy coffee from and wink at. He’s got it made in the shade. Bob reminds me that nothing really changes all that much.
Tanya and I went walking by the water. We gave wistful looks at some of the lovely big abodes. Can you imagine rolling out of your king sized bed in the morning, throwing on a silk robe, fixing a latte on your granite countertops while sun streams through the skylights, then stretching out on your wooden lawn chair on the patio as the waves beat the shore? Pure bliss. Or I could do with a cabin on the inlet in Sechelt, waking up from a stealthy sleep in solid blackness to a crisp morning, wrapping a wool blanket around myself, grabbing a strong coffee and sitting on a rickety chair on the porch with my hubby and cat, looking over the smooth water to layer upon layer of mountain peaks. I like to dream cause it means I’m alive and kicking. I am a paper bag princess. I am an underdog marathon winner, strong and tall. I’m a lottery winner. I’m the heroine spy in a brutal war. I’m the spirited first lady. Yes, good things are inevitable for this wide-eyed, wading girl, ankle deep in the good life.
Project adult. I vow to sit up properly on the bus, get up at a decent hour in the morning when the light is still soft and honeyed, stop biting my nails, eat healthy, and take more responsibility at work. Why do I still feel like a sloppy, acne prone teen? The world grew up and left me in pubescence. Dad once said he doesn’t feel grown up. I believe I may end up a child in wrinkly skin.
For the last few months, depression has had me caged while mania shook the cage wildly. Things became about existing and making it through the day. Slowly the tumult of emotions and thoughts subsided and I began to sleep my mornings away for lack of things to do. Brad and I faced a dire lack of income, as the episode kept me from work. I longed to contribute and feel normal again, which led me to picking up a darling little barista job.
Hanging out with the twenty year olds and learning how to make latte art is good for the soul. I lost my twenties to the vilest of creatures, Monsieur Maladie Mentale. It’s ok if I start that decade over again, right?
It’s the season of dandelions and lilacs. I am traipsing down Richter Street towards the mountains. The hills that lie ahead are balding, brown and striking against the serene blue sky. I am guzzling in the vitamin D, all warm and sticky. I stop beneath a large oak to stretch. The tennis players are dancing and the bike riders pumping beside the shiny lake. It’s a glorious May day.
It’s a day in May to be present, to smell the fragrances of the proud flowers and run your hands against bushes letting the leaves tickle your palms. It’s a day to be carefree and untied from grownup things, bills and responsibilities. It’s a day to high five the breeze, be mesmerized by the quivering of lake and limb, and lend an ear to wisdom. It’s a day to discover who I am and be amazed by it. It’s a day to be completely content.