I like waking up early on a Sunday and beating the birds to the worms and the worms to the dirt. There’s something different about the air. I could never explain the science of it but sound seems to pass through it differently. Everything is clearer. It’s the difference between balanced surround sound and hearing everything come out of two dinky speakers. Perhaps my own physiology plays a part as well. I just seem so much more aware. A bee on a flower. Another bee on an almost identical flower. The way people seem like background art as they bussle about. A plane passes overhead. It seems so far away and yet, paradoxically, at the tip of my fingers. When I step out the door I find the detritus of a Saturday Night world. A handkerchief, a shoulderbag even a shoe. These are secrets that usually only custodians are privy to. The world went right on spinning past these lost items but in about 5 hours, some young girl, with mascara face art is going to wake up and wonder why she’s shorter on one side today. I know the answer and now so do you.
I like to have a mission on days like this. Today I’m going to buy bacon. This is ironic because at the same time I’m thinking that I need to exercise like this more I’m going to eat the fatty bacon like a cannibal pig. I buy “miracle bubbles” at the supermarket. I think back on the simple joy of being a kid, when joy came in a cheap plastic bottle for 37 cents. I want Maya to know that joy. I’ve become really good at blowing bubbles. Maya doesn’t understand it yet. She’s under attack from invisible pests that explode in wetness. We’ll try again later. Or maybe she never will. Takako, 32 years deep, is equally unimpressed.
I look at the magazine section in the supermarket. How does Sarah Jessica Parker get the cover of anything. Does any woman wake up and say, “I want to be Sarah Jessica Parker today!” I’ve been watching Mad Men on Netflix. I can’t help but feel that the ads in these magazines would disappoint Don Draper. I strategize. If someone catches me reading Marie Claire I’ll look at a sexy model and pretend she’s my ex and I’m pining for days gone by. Am I writing this way because Don Draper did in the Season 4 episode, Summer Man? Maybe I am. It doesn’t matter. We should all be a little more honest.
I thought about this on the walk back to the apartment. All the witty things I would write
swimming in my head drowning in my head. I wanted to go on Facebook and say the perfect thing. Something bite sized. A crowd pleaser. Maybe, “Secret Sundays rule!”