Sunday Epiphanies

I remember doing a handstand for a man

in his living room in the suburbs. It was a Sunday. I had class at eight the next morning.

The room was dark, lit only from the light in the kitchen. There were neutral colors

artwork and artifacts from the Ming Dynasty. He held his drink and told me to be careful.

And I thought, that's not very fun. That's not in the spirit of this whole enterprise.

He was older, much older, already married and divorced

with three children

and I wanted him to see in me a chance to have everything

he'd ever wanted, everything he'd missed.

Though it wasn't him who wanted anything, it was me

wanting him

to want those things.

When I was a teenager

and it was Sunday night 

I would look at the digital clock

The blue numbers glowed in segments

two lines, for one. five lines, for three. three, for seven.

I counted them and made a formula that told me

if I had a certain number, I would be lucky.

I don't remember what the formula was

or if I believed it

but I couldn't sleep and needed something
to do, something other than plotting, fantasizing, or watching Nick at Nite

-- though I did all that, too.

Today it is Sunday, September 9. I am thirty-two. In two weeks I will be thirty-three.

I feel scared by this. I should I think.

I have no children. I'm changing careers.

Moving away from a city that has left an impression

that I'm not sure I can justify

even for fiction, for experience, for the sake of living life.

I wanted for many years to go back to 19, to a time when I thought

I went from joyful to conflicted, from motivated and strategic, even nonchalantly

to insular and pensive and fearful--in its former and current sense

Now I just want to make the most of the days that remain

they seem to grow fewer and fewer 

and they seem to tell me: there's no time to engage in fantasy about going back

you need to take this day -- and make it perfect

What I miss about my twenties was the feeling of optimism 

Am I tricking myself -- I think I was truly upset only twice. And both times

I consoled myself with the knowledge that I would be happier in the future

I remember sitting at the computer, unhappy with something I'd done

with the man from the suburban house, and I thought: by March I'll be fine

Now I console myself with the knowledge

that others have gone through life

through worse times than these

and they survived

even found a way to take the day

in the absence of perfection -- to take the day

exactly as it is