Today is a post of happiness and pleasantries. For the first time in I don’t know how long, it’s not putrid and humid or morbidly sultry out. It’s warm, sunny and breezy. My legs aren’t sweating to high heaven and I don’t have a raging case of road rash on my thighs. This is big, people. You would think I got tossed from moving vehicles ala Fall Guy with all of the heat discomfort I get, which is embarrassing considering I work in a luxurious office all day.
I took a walk for lunch and stopped at the local farmers market. White tents everywhere, bright flowers in buckets on the pavement, a terrible live band playing on the stage. The sounds of the fountain in the center of the plaza, ethnic food stands celebrating this week’s contribution to our melting pot. Fruits, vegetables, breads, and even scary ass live bees at the honey stands mix in with the earthy scent of all of the fresh herbs. Honestly, it’s my absolute favorite place to be in the city from summer to fall. I don’t leave there with a trendy reusable bag full of strategically placed baguette and bundles of bright flowers like the polished women do in every movie I have ever watched, but I do get honey for the boy and berries for myself and just kind of feel part of it all when I am there.
On to the cheese portion of the market. More importantly, those who sell the cheese. I always walk to the Amish stand that sells bakery goods and cheese, for I love the Amish so. Especially the men. No, they don’t always look conventionally handsome and it does appear that they in fact, really do not use any electricity at all. But I will keep this short. They aren’t preoccupied with all of the filler and garbage in life. They build the communities they live in, the furniture they sit in, and they grow righteous beards when they marry in lieu of wedding rings. All of this and cheese too? Sisters, please. Judge all you want, but it makes me want to give it all up and build a cabin somewhere and render my own lard.
The snooty French crepe guy sweats his ass off making sweet and savory crepes for us, all with a look of sheer disdain for the portly Americans waiting in line for his goods. He seems actually annoyed that we patronized his business. I think he just wanted to stand there, be French, and let us all know that he makes crepes that we don’t deserve. But it’s hot, and he wears sexy t-shirts, and I can’t judge him because this post is about pleasantries. Besides he once made me a wickedly delicious fresh blueberry, lemon and goat cheese crepe. To that I say Merci!
I stop over at the fancy natural soap stand, hoping to find fancy, natural women working there. But instead I find a hipster. I ask if any of their fancy natural soaps are suitable for washing my hair with, because my hair is a mess. He says “sure! I do!” and I look at his hipster mop and could feel the grime itching my scalp as we spoke. So no. However, olive oil soap that smells like basil and lemons really should have its place in society. It also doubles as emergency pesto. Thanks, hipster!
I stroll over to buy some giant sunflowers for the older ladies I work with because it just seems like that kind of a fucking day, you know? The flower lady is all sunshine and smiles and acts like anyone would if they were peddling petals all day. By this time, you should just picture me skipping through the crowd, blue birds flying around my shoulders, cellulite free, no debt, and no need to ever wax my mustache again because it mysteriously vanished. Because that’s how I felt. It’s how I genuinely really felt. Moments like this are seriously worth remembering and sharing. To know they exist and will exist again the next time I am feeling like I ate dirty sand for dinner and then had no toilet paper afterward.
I grabbed a delicious cold leek quiche on the go from a pastry stand and ate it on the way back to the office. It was absolutely divine. I walked past a church and made a last-minute call to drop in, say thank you and leave. Regardless of what my thoughts are on religion or God or Buddha or Goddesses or The Golden Girls, someone or something deserved some props for this day. I came back to my office, distributed my sunflowers to the ladies, grabbed a glass of water and then welcomed a visit from my boss who stopped by to show me plans for the new space where I will be Grand Poobah. Honestly, what a soul-sustainer of a day, dudes.
I have some theories on good moments and the people who worry about the other shoe dropping so much so that the moment is no longer good. It’s two-fold. The first part is that when you wear ill-fitting shoes, the shoe will drop. Just like when you are living in a manner that isn’t you, or when you are making the wrong decisions, or compromising things you shouldn’t. Of course it will drop. The second part is that if you just take the shoes off and skip through the farmers market, you have no shoes to worry about. Only flowers, Amish men and their cheese, and the sounds of the fountain in the center of the plaza. Pleasantries. See?