Yesterday* was the kind of lazy yet somehow productive Saturday that can’t happen if you try planning it. I woke up, had a late spontaneous breakfast with some friends while watching Brazil claw its way back into Copa Mundial through Chile, went badminton racket shopping, got said badminton racket, came home and helped room mate with sartorial choices, made a delicious stew-y late lunch-y thing, watched more Torchwood, went on a run, made it two 13 minute runs instead, came back, watched more Torchwood and ate the remains of stew-y lunch, went to bed.
Some days, I love being alone.
I also got a brief glimpse into what my retirement’s going to be like. While doing a little last minute racket research at a Sunnyvale Starbucks, I saw a trio of men sitting around on couches and tables. One of them was pulling out all the stops on his Talkative Old Man act, haranguing the other two about his life stories. All three of them were sucking down coffees at a glacial pace. TOM was halfway through a paper — an actual, honest-to-god printed newspaper — while he’d cornered those two.
I think it was the newspaper that did it for me. I do this only when I go back home, where I flip through the physical daily papers instead of listening to NPR and checking Google News at work. There’s something so very comforting and tangible about the paper news, like someone went to the trouble of putting this together for you and there’s some order and consistency in this chaotic world because of that. Even if half the news is gloomy and the other half is apocalyptic.
Maybe that will be me in fifty years, but slightly less loquacious, exchanging life stories with some coffee-shop friends while I write in a desultory way. Or maybe writing actual words by then will be obsolete and we’ll all do podcasts.
*Yes, I know, late post once again, this is what happens when you’re binge-watching another season of Torchwood and having an intelligent conversation with your best friend about body image