Fleeting

2007-06-03, 1:33 a.m.

Today I went to the fair with a new friend of mine. It was a small festival at the church a few blocks up from my house, just a few rides and a couple local bands playing in a set up under a circus type tent. I wore my new floral print halter dress from Anthropologie and a lovely old pair of thong sandals that rubbed the delicate skin in between my toes raw but looked adorable. We rode everything but the ferris wheel (I have an irrational fear of heights), and attempted to win a cheap stuffed animal by shooting down a row of plastic ducks (no such luck). The air was warm and I welcomed the sun shining hot on my face after so many weeks of being cooped up in my dreary house, curled up in winter blankets with tragic love stories written by suicidal poets. It felt so good to smile, to talk, to walk arm in arm with this lovely new friend who made me laugh with the abandon of a little girl. When we got home I made dinner and we had vegan tacos and diet Coke; I changed into my pajamas and we sat in the living room with the window wide open and the cool night air rushing in and watched Twin Falls Idaho. I didn't think about the future, fat, or my miserably failed relationships even once the entire day; I cannot remember the last time I felt so content, so comfortable, so unburdened.

I want to bottle this day, these feelings, take a swig whenever I let my broken heart get the best of me. I am afraid to go to sleep tonight, to put my happiness to bed. It is so rare, and I am afraid it will be fleeting.


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