I spoke to a therapist last week who told me that he’d like to see me be more joyful. I told him that “joy” wasn’t exactly my thing. I don’t mean to sound like Eeyore; I have moments of great happiness, of course. But I’m not exactly a Tigger by nature. I think of joy as something sustained, possibly even something constitutional. I think of joy as a different vibration than the one on which I generally function. But yesterday morning, I felt that I was edging closer to something resembling joy.
Friends of ours have a beach house in Malibu for a couple of weeks and we went out to visit them. The picture above is of T with their daughter Amara. Scott took T into the ocean until they were practically underwater and I don’t think I’ve ever seen either of them have quite so much fun. I napped with the baby afterward and his hair smelled like the sea. I thought of telling the therapist that I was a quick study and our work was done.
Then our babysitter came by and Scott and I went to have some yogurt and pick up the NYTimes to see my Modern Love column, “Finding Marriage Without Losing a Self.” Reading my first NYTimes byline wasn’t quite as joy-inducing as an ocean-scented baby, but it sure didn’t suck.
Then I had a fun time reading at the Tongue and Groove series at the Hotel Cafe, with J. Ryal Stradhal, Chiwan Choi, Rich Ferguson and Holland on her uke. Scott and I stopped at Mia Sushi, our fave local spot, on the way home and followed that by staying up too late watching True Blood. Scott only complained about there not being enough bare boobies to make up for it being a horrible chick show sixteen times as opposed to his usual thirty. Joy!
Baby, friends, ocean, nap, fro-yo, words, sushi, True Blood. Seriously, joy.