I wish you would show me — I wish we would show each other — the lonely parts. Not just the good times, when we feel compelled to snap a photo and hashtag it with a caption like “my people.” (Although that’s one thing I’m not guilty of — the wonderful people in my life are scattered all over the country, and unless I figure out Photoshop, they’ll probably never appear in a photo together).
I’m tired of the pictures we stop to take outside of trendy places. I do it too — I’m not trying to point a finger at you.
Can I tell you a truth? I don’t love macarons. Not even from the famed Ladurée. Given the choice, I would take a not-quite-circular, not-quite-cooled chocolate chip cookie from your outstretched hand, any day of the week. A macaron is not nearly gooey enough for me. And while I’m a sucker for pretty and pastel-colored, I think a macaron tastes a little too much like a puff of air. I feel like a macaron is like a diet cookie, almost. A dainty one, two, three bites — no napkin required.
I like something weighty in the palm of my hand. Something buttery. Something that will make me want to lick my fingers, when you’re not looking. Call me less sophisticated, if you want, but I don’t think that’s a habit we should be trying to outgrow.
I like a humble cookie — the kind I can eat while I sit on the kitchen counter, with my legs swinging and my slippers on. With mail and magazines all around.
I wish we weren’t afraid to post the parts where we felt just a little bit wistful. Whether we’re watching a little boy play catch with his dad, hat falling down into his eyes, or a little girl riding on somebody’s shoulders, pigtails bouncing up and down.
Yesterday I stood on a hill and watched a model sailboat race in the middle of Central Park. It was a perfectly sunny day, at arguably one of the nicest times of year. My eyes were full of tears.
I blinked them back and kept walking. I went by the Frick Collection on the Upper East Side, and stopped to look at the flowers. There seems to be some kind of tulip project going on, all over Manhattan. (I so, so appreciate it.)
(I also appreciate whoever thought to plant cherry blossoms. A lot. I will miss those.)
I kept going, to La Maison du Chocolat, and picked up a two-piece box for a friend. Wished I could have gotten her the twenty-piece box.
I found a bench and sat there, and thumbed through my phone until I reached Home. Tried to sound cheerful. Gave up, hung up. Crossed the street to walk in the sun.
And that was Sunday afternoon. Sunday has always been one of my hardest days. Maybe because it’s the one we’re all supposed to love so much?
I think I’m one of the rare few to prefer a Monday morning to a Sunday afternoon, in many ways. Monday is full; Sunday is empty.