There are moments in life that are more favorable than others.
Moments where I slowly open my eyes and unravel to my own rhythm. No rush to be anywhere. Do anything in particular.
There are those moments where I’m laughing. I’m with you. Life feels expansive. Filled with possibilities. The sun hugs my skin. I’m warmed. I can stay here forever. Mesmerized by the wide spread view of the ocean. I stare at it; you stare at me.
There are those moments when I smell the bold morning coffee brewing from my tiny kitchen. My bed is perfectly made. Everything’s in order. The living room is pierced by natural day light casting shadows of the small plant that happily sits in the corner.
My breath is calm. My thoughts are clear. Gratitude pulsates through my body.
I’m energized. I’m pumped. Dubstep is playing through my headphones. Feet are moving. Body sweating. I’m happy. Excited. Feeling unstoppable.
And then there are those moments.
Those fucking moments…
Waiting for ticket 876 at the DMV to be called when the last number was 531 while looking down at my phone anxiously longing for a text message that never appears.
And how lucky is it that this period of limbo also happens to coincide with forgetting my wallet in the lyft so when 837 is finally called I’m left scrambling through my purse for a phantom.
Heart sinks. Stomach churns. The room grows dim. Anger runs through my veins sending irrational signals to my body that it needs to destroy something.
My hippie, positive self-soothing talk chimes in reminding me to calm the fuck down and keep it together.
So I call the lyft driver for the damn wallet. “I’ll be there in 40 minutes.”
40 minutes turns into two hours and twenty three minutes.
I’m hungry. I’m pissed.
But I’ve got the wallet, the text, and number 1032.
*image credit to @Peaceful_barb as noted in image