Yesterday fat white clouds drifted all stately across a sky that looked like something out of those old-time Dick and Jane books with Spot and Puff and Mother in her pretty checkered dress with the belling skirt and Father slim as Fred Astaire in his natty light grey suit.
It was a picture-book summer day in other words and people weren’t exactly working hard as far as I could tell.
At CVS the kid at the register was in such a fog he greeted me, thanked me and bade me goodbye without interrupting his open-eyed nap for so much as a second. I could have been wearing a clown wig and he wouldn’t have noticed.
Work was the last thing on his mind.
The last thing on my mind too.
I knocked off early to go for my first massage in over two years’ time and after it felt so relaxed I missed the step on my way out of the building and had to execute several super-fast Salsa steps to keep from pitching forward onto the sidewalk.
I then went out for an early dinner, missed my mouth not once but twice, came back home for a quick nap, answered three emails, fell asleep watching the latest episode of Breaking Bad of all the impossible feats and went to bed for real at 10.
I swear: there are tensed-up stomach muscles that don’t really let go until right now, in this fully flowered, children’s-book-beautiful stretch of high-summer weeks.