What does it take to make a brand new day worth waking up for? Not necessarily the promise of great adventure nor the love of a lifetime, though I wouldn’t dream of tossing either out of bed.
Yesterday is hardly a blur, but on paper, it wouldn’t qualify as the most memorable one ever, the greatest one-man show on earth, featuring a very special guest.
So what did I get up to on Thursday, February 9, 2012 — the 40th day of the year — then? Most notably, after nearly an entire week, I broke my non-vow of silence. I had an 8am breakfast in South Melbourne with my friend Kimba, who offered me lots of valuable advice about the book that after three and a half years of blogging, and at the much-appreciated urging of friends and former colleagues, I’m finally getting around to writing.
On the way to Cafe Sweethearts on Coventry Street (if you ever go there, order the scrambled-eggs-and-bacon sandwich), I stopped and asked directions from a good-looking guy working in a car-repair shop.
“Excuse me, sir. Could you tell me where Coventry Street is?”
He looked around, confused. “Coventry Street?”
“Yes.” I was certain it was the road we were on, but there was no visible street sign. “Is this Coventry Road?”
“Ah, yes, yes. I think so. I think we are on Coventry Street.”
I thanked him and walked away. Several meters later, I got my confirmation in the form of a street sign. Idea for a future blog post: people who don’t know the name of the street on which they work.
The rest of the day was business I usual. I went running around Albert Lake. I booked a flight to Sydney, where I will spend eight hours next Tuesday. I worked on my book proposal (which received two thumbs up and some helpful edits from Kimba). And I even completed a chapter, a tale of lust, longing, racism and five hours in lock up in Buenos Aires, which I hope will lure a qualified agent or a publisher willing to take a chance on a literary newbie.
What didn’t I do? I didn’t eat lunch or dinner in a trendy setting (unless the couch in my living space would qualify), see any good movies (though as of yesterday, My Week with Marilyn is now showing in Australia), or spend the day looking forward to a hot weekend date. I haven’t been asked out in forever, and aside from the clueless guy who has no idea where he works, nobody has caught my eye in just as long.
I didn’t indulge in comfort food, get drunk and dance shirtless on a stage, have sex, or kiss anyone. With the exception of Kimba and garage guy (whom I might not even recognize if I wake up next to him tomorrow morning), I can’t recall a single person I saw yesterday. They’re all blurs.
Still, Australian Day aside, it must have been the closest thing I’ve had to a perfect day since I returned to Melbourne five weeks and two days ago. It involved two of my favorite, most-therapeutic things: running and writing. Most importantly, it reinforced an important lesson that I actually learned some time ago but occasionally forget: nice scenery, human and otherwise, is always-appreciated window dressing, but I don’t need the glory of love, nor the comfort of a man, to make my day.
Now there’s an epiphany worth getting out of bed for.