"In vacant or in pensive mood..." I am: Bekah; 24; Law Student / Favorite Things: Carbs (so there!), Johnny Damon, Smiling at babies, Grilled cheese, Comfortable silence / Favorite Supreme Court Justice: Brennan / Favorite Wilson: Owen by an inch / Today's Special: Song: Elliott Smith, "Bled White"; Quote: "You know, there's like a butt-load of gangs at this school. This one gang kept wanting me to join because I'm pretty good with a bowstaff." Please love me: mmbekah@yahoo.com

 
I'm writing for the first time in a while to announce that I won't be writing for a while. Yeah. I'm sorry for the lack of posts lately--things have been hectic--but as soon as I get back from my short vacation in North Carolina I will resume posting pretty regularly. I'll be out of town and away from the internet until next Saturday, so please don't forget me before then. I'll have lots of book reports when I get back, because sleeping and reading novels is all I'm going to be doing. So try not to implode with excitement before then. Peace. Seacrest out.

posted by Bekah at 11:04 PM :: |

 
Oh, It’s Such a Perfect Day!

Sitting here, studying for my last exam, I’ve decided not to wallow in the doldrums. Instead, I’ve been fantasizing about The Perfect Day. The Perfect Day exists, in various forms, in everyone’s psyche. Although the Day can never actually be realized, it is important for us all to construct a cast of characters, an activity schedule, and an elaborate menu in our minds, so that we will always know what to shoot for. Here is my Perfect Day, in its current incarnation:

9:00 a.m. Wake up naturally (no alarm), sprawled out on a poofy-mattressed canopy bed, complete with T-shirt sheets and a million pillows, my eyes gradually adjusting to the gorgeous brushstroke of sunlight beaming onto my pillow. My hair looks amazing. I revel for a few moments in the glory of the morning. The breeze blowing through the open window rustling the curtains indicates that it’s a temperate 68 degrees and sunny outside.

9:30 a.m. Roll out of bed and take a scalding hot shower with ridiculously good water pressure (it feels like pins and needles, but in a good way), using the brand new assortment of designer products lining the shelves in my bathroom. Think about shaving my legs, but realize that there’s no need—I must have forgotten that I had electrolysis, and will never have to shave my legs again. Silly me! Also, I realize that I’ve had that special Japanese procedure done to my hair, and I don’t have to ever blow dry or straighten it again—it’s silky smooth and straight as soon as it air dries.

10:00 a.m. As my hair air dries, I put on The Shins’ latest cd and get dressed in my favorite jeans, t-shirt, and flip flops. (Ok, that’s every day. But some things don’t have to change). Notice that the jeans feel a little looser than I remembered. And there’s a $20 bill in the pocket that I’d forgotten about. Hot.

10:30 a.m. Go to brunch with J at a restaurant with outdoor seating and a balcony with a wrought iron fence. I’m pretty sure the building is brick, and there is lots of ivy on it. And there are flower boxes in front of all the windows, with tulips in them. And there are tiny flowers on the tables in blown-glass vases from Venice. And I have a big Belgian Waffle (the kind actually from Belgium; they ship it to me because I said so, or maybe I’m actually in Belgium, but just for brunch) with whipped cream, and a big glass of pineapple-orange juice. The breeze is cool, and there’s Mendelssohn playing. Also Johnny Depp is sitting at the next table, and he is very nice to the waitress and tips her well. Then he kisses his baby daughter on the forehead and smiles at me knowingly. I call my parents and sister and tell them I love them.

12:00 p.m. I hop in my 1989 convertible Mercedes (it’s not obnoxious because it’s old and stuff), and drive to the mountains (which, today, happen to be a scant hour away). J and my friends are all in the car, but everyone understands and observes the no talking rule. There is only music of my choosing, and if it were today it would probably involve some Bob Dylan and some Stills and some Walkmen and some Death Cab, since I’m feeling shamelessly—pathetically—indie. Soon, the air starts to get cooler, and the smell of honeysuckle and overnight rain fills our nostrils. I reach out and touch the flowering plants jutting into the mountain road. I point to the baby fox peeking out of the foliage, and then we’re there.

1:00 p.m. We pack healthy snacks like dried banana chips and granola, put on some running shoes, and hike up one of the smaller mountains. This takes about an hour. On the way to the top I bend down and pick up some shiny rocks and put them in my pocket the way Amelie would. (I forget about them until next month when I find them in the drier with the lint and remember the Perfect Day).

2:00 p.m. At the top, everyone splits up to explore on their own. I find a huge, loveseat-shaped rock with an impeccable view of the mountains and countryside below. I take in the view for a while, watching the falcons swoop around over the checkerboard of farms and trees and lakes, and suddenly feel that sharp pang of sublime fear that is terrifying but reassuring too. Eventually, I pick up the book I brought—who knows which book, but after today it will be my favorite—and read in the sun for several hours before hiking back down.

5:00 p.m. Head to the lake for a sundown picnic. All of my friends and family are there, including friends from high school and college and law school and camp, and so is my 7th grade science teacher, who my friends and I attempted to drive slowly insane all those years ago, and to whom I am finally able to apologize. He’s very kind and assures me that he’s not mad. At the picnic there are little mini quiches and other tiny appetizers, including torts and chocolate covered strawberries. Also, lots of frozen margaritas and beer. And there are cucumber sandwiches with cream cheese, and deviled eggs, and latkes and matzo ball soup made by my mom, and grilled cheese sandwiches fit for a queen. And we all eat and then lie on our backs in the grass, which is suspiciously devoid of any bugs of the biting or stinging variety, stare up at the sky, and comment on the moon and the stars, and it isn’t trite at all. It’s sincere. And then we play on the go-karts and splash around in the lake, and sing Nightswimming unbelievably out of tune. And the mist around the moon is moving fast. That means it might rain soon.

8:00 p.m. Everyone takes a moonlight drive back home to the communal mansion (my Mercedes holds about 25; everyone else drives on their own), and when we get there we put up the convertible top just in time to beat the monstrous thunderstorm that doesn’t even start with individual raindrops—it’s just sheets of rain. We all run inside, but it’s too late—we’re soaked and cold. So we all put on flannel pajamas and build a fire and curl up on the fluffy white carpet and give each other back rubs and talk about when we were kids. Then we read the paper and do crosswords together, and drink hot chocolate, and make brownies, and listen to the rain clink on the roof, which is suddenly and conveniently made of tin and makes the rain sound like music. The lightning outside is the kind that makes the entire sky glow, and it’s white and pink and yellow. We eventually fall asleep watching brat pack movies and Mystery Science Theater (which Comedy Central is inexplicably playing again, all the time). I dream about basketball players hugging each other, and sleep all the way through the night, without any worries about adhesion contracts or rape shield statutes.

So that’s my Perfect Day. It may not involve Virginia Vennett in white lingerie, or a little person on a unicycle, but it’s mine. What’s yours?

posted by Bekah at 7:52 PM :: |