[Dolan Pieced Petal sweatshirt + Rag & Bone zipper cutoffs + Urban Outfitters hat + flutternyc cuff.]
Adjusting remarkably well to having about 10% of the workload that I had this time last month. Sort of scary. In the absence of answering emails and never taking lunch breaks and stuff, I’ve transferred most of my energy into running again and tending to my little postage stamp of a backyard.
In another life, I was an English country estate’s caretaker, parking fancy cars and raking up leaves in a button-up suiting vest and suspenders.
I feel like sometimes, removed from all the outside things that make me ‘me,’—work, relationships, decisions—I get this pure glimpse of what hereditarily defines me: weeding, pruning, measuring out fertilizer, arranging pots while singing something (mom) and sweeping the ever loving shit out of the space 6x a day (dad) have become my favorite ways to feel productive without actually earning any money.
Anyway, I feel like it sends a good message to my neighbors during the day. Youth doesn’t always make the best first impression. (Well, relative youth.) I love that I can wave to the old guy across the alley who tends to his marigolds and roses while looking responsible watering my wisteria and plucking dead bits off the ivy. I sweep up mulch around the flower box out front and get to talk about cats and wine with the porch-dwelling neighbors. I have some of my best conversations eradicating cobwebs from my pendant light, and usually catch up with B & B C. on my walk back from the gym or while evening out the tops of my boxwoods. (Full disclosure: I sometimes send a photo of the trimmings to a friend and say “Trimmed my bush today,” but for the most part, this is really wholesome shit we’re talking about here.)
Similar, but more alarming: I’ve taken to saying “Oh heavens,” “My word,” “Heavens to Betsy,” (granny) and stopping our walks or bike rides to point out admirable landscaping efforts (mom). Sometimes I pull weeds from strangers’ front walks (dad).
Our street is a funny place: it’s either young couples with kids, or venerable blue hairs with lots of free time and great southern accents. Rob and I have tried to fit in as best we can, and I think where we usually end up bending an elbow late into the evening speaks volumes. (Hint: it’s not with the young couples.)
Anyways, I told L the other day I’d prefer to just hop from anxious, 30-something miscreant to wholesome, happy 50-something retiree. Cheers!
-C.
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