I'm kind of in love, but not with anything in particular, and certainly not with anyone.*
That's ok. I didn't go over to Bergman's house today.
I may yet. For today, walking home and being chatty with strangers and listening to Endless Summer and making a mean tuna sandwich and doing my homework until late at night is what I want to be doing. In that same order: the air finally smelled like November and I got to know my Starbucks guy and the liquor store lady and when I die I want them to play the second track of that record and I put scallions and mayo and a little bit of Havarti on it and I finished an article on the Nineteenth Amendment and I still have lots of energy so I am going to translate some German and reread a book for a paper on St. Anselm.
These things tell me that I am doing alright. And strangely, they suggest that I may yet fall in love some day.
The fifth and sixth years have invited me to Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday. I'm a bit nervous about it, but I sure do have a lot to be thankful for.
(* There have been some lovely and confusing phone calls, however.)
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