Yesterday, Jodi asked her readers to pick one of three questions she submitted, and to write about it on their respective blogs. So here’s what I’m picking:
2. Tell about a time in your life that you remember thinking that everything in your life felt perfect…where were you, what were you doing, why do you think you felt that way.
I distinctly remember feeling warm oozes of perfectness several times in my life, and I’d say most of them were in my early 20s. That’s probably because college is that time in life when you congruently have the most freedom AND the least amount of responsibility, and because I was too young to really know what perfect could be. (I know some of you could say the same thing about me now.)
There was one evening my junior year when a group of us hung out at my apartment, then we spontaneously went downtown to 6th Street to hear some great live music, then drove to Kerbey Lane for some dessert, came back to my place and talked and talked and talked, and then we realized the sun was about to rise so we drove to Mount Bonnell for the view. To top it off, we ate pancakes at Magnolia Cafe, where Clarisa nearly faceplanted into her breakfast. And as I drove back home to go to bed, I remember thinking it was nearly a perfect evening.
But of course that doesn’t appeal to me anymore. It sounds exhausting. There was also an evening on the aforementioned trip to the British Isles where we listened to traditional Irish music in a pub in Dublin, and I remember thinking those few hours were perfect.
The weekend Kabob and I first got to really know each other, in Thessaloniki, Greece, touched the brink of perfectness. It probably had to do with context, because I was going away for a break from the harsh reality of village life in Kosova, and it was the first time I had a chance to breathe since I moved to Europe. No one was watching my every move, no one was laughing at my language faux pas, I could wear shorts. There was one night when Kabob and I walked around downtown, just talking, until about 4 a.m. (why was staying up late so fun just a few years ago, and now it sounds like torture?). Another night we walked along the beach, and it started getting really windy, so we took shelter on this covered deck of a restaurant closed for the evening. We sat at a table and talked about anything and everything, till the wee hours of the morning. And after those few days, I went back to Kosova and thought I could marry that guy.
Our honeymoon at Martha’s Vineyard easily tops those, for the main obvious reason that it was a honeymoon. But it was also the first time Kabob and I traveled together and didn’t wear ourselves thin in hopes to see and do everything. We slept in until noon, we woke up with no agenda, I read books in our quaint little cottage rental, we watched “Casablanca.” We drove all over the island, taking in the New England fall leaves and the funky stores. We ate clam chowder, lobster, crab cakes. John Mayers’ “Wonderland” came out around that time, and anytime I hear that song I’m back in the car with Kabob driving 35 mph around the island (the fastest speed limit is 45). I can’t wait to go back. Maybe for our 5th anniversary.
