Pick And Choose

Reality. There is a tendency for anyone who writes to play things up, or down. I can make the simplest of things sound more exciting, or romantic, or wonderful, just by using the right words. For example, a friend said their gardener came to mow the grass. How much more interesting that is than saying the lawn mower guys came. Of course the same thing is true in reverse. I could say, Bea's mother kept a scrapbook of every important event in her life. Or I could say, that Bea's mother carefully cut out every article delineating her firsts, first arrest, first time in jail, etc.

Kind or cruel, romantic or gritty, it all depends on the words. The funny thing is, that the way I perceive things has a lot to do with the words I use to think about them. There are so many moments in a day that choosing which ones to focus on is like going to an expensive deli with a pocket full of money. I can pick and choose from a vast array of little delicacies and then go sit down on the patio and indulge myself in whichever ones taste best after that first nibble. Leftovers go to Chauncey who is always delighted with anything. He will sit in my lap, bright eyes fixed on mine while I relate all my woes and then, like some four footed sin-eater, he wags his tail and bounds away.

And I am left with only the best parts -- if I choose for it to be that way. And why would I choose anything else? So today this is what I choose.

Warm summer breezes drifting through sun dappled leaf shadows. Children playing as children always have, on blankets under a tree, little girls sorting through stacks of naked dolls and their clothing interrupted only when the little boy who is laughing and throwing his Frisbee runs over to taunt them. My best friend and I sitting across from each other at the picnic table, sharing memories and stories as warm as the day.

And... embarrassed, like some teenager having to sort the family laundry for the first time, I try to figure out how to do my laundry at the hotel here. Somehow trudging down the hallways, past the Brooks Brothers suits and Ralph Lauren polo shirts with a basket full of unmentionables seems more than I can manage. Since I am a night owl by nature and most of these good folks must be up at the crack of dawn, I decide the best time to do it would be after ten pm. And, since I don't have a basket here, I shed all my clothes and load everything into a pillowcase. Now, faced with what to wear while washing nearly everything I brought, I don a pair of jeans, flip flops and a loose blouse. Nothing else at all and hurry down to the elevator, detergent in one hand, key and dirty clothes in the other. The elevator door opens and I remember that I need money. All those quarters I got from the desk earlier are sitting on the counter back in my room and I have to go back for them. Chauncey is ecstatic when I return. He always assumes I came just to see him, so I have to pick him up and make a fuss before leaving one more time with the obligatory, "I'll be back."

It turns out doing the laundry is pretty simple. The room is opened by my room key, the washers are large and clean and the dryers actually dried everything with one whopping two dollar donation. The concierge told me that it takes forty minutes to wash and forty five, to fifty to dry, so I didn't have to stay down there. Not bad at all. Two trips down the elevator and voila, clean clothes!

Onward and upward! Now I'm sitting here in warm, clean pajamas, air conditioner humming behind me, writing My Thots with Chauncey curled up beside me. In this moment I am totally content.