On Maui in June I picked up a cheesy hula girl dashboard toy. She was destined for my desk, but it occurs to me as I’m opening the package that “the car” is no longer “our car”. It’s “my car”, and if I want to stick her on my dashboard, I can. Darn it.
Now she dances while I drive.
Two am. I can’t sleep, and nothing is on the book for tomorrow. The urge to get up and rearrange my closet strikes and I go with it, flicking on the bedroom light, flinging hangers and heels all over the bed and floor, playing music, sorting clothes, disturbing NO ONE. It is glorious.
In the grocery store I automatically reach for the 1% milk; it’s been 1% in the fridge for years, it’s been 1% in the fridge for the months I’ve spent living alone. I pause with my fingers curled around the carton and suddenly remember I prefer skim, and have, in fact, always preferred skim. The 1% was a compromise that doesn’t need to be made anymore.
I buy skim.