After-Glow

And I did love the 90s hit.

And I'm not talking about the meteor strike that left a light "seen only once in my lifetime" - well not my life time but the lifetime of a blogger who saw it go down. Pun unintended.

Last night was a reminder of the times you stood in a staircase or a park bench or simply from the entrance to a grand hall and thought to yourself - it's good to be king. Or in some cases I thought to myself (with a big fake mane) Man I can't wait to be king.

Neither here nor there but the song that goes apropos is not Anthony's Freedom or Cole's Power Trip but Club Can't Even Handle Me by The Panhandle.

Last night was vintage, red, sisterly, brotherly and full of bromantic moments centered around looking at each other in the eye, telling each other that you loved and missed each other and an agreement to tear the city up with a BNO to best all others.

Make it home by 6:01 rocking the 6:06 and smile to yourself on the walk down your hallway thinking boy am I lucky to be who I am, with the friends I have, in the city that I am, trying to juke it all.

That's the kind of afterglow you only get around your mid20s (bit of a stretch but let's roll with it) and that I'm sure (and hopeful) it continues to evolve as you progress and hit your peak around age 65 and you're on a shore somewhere rocking the perma linen outfits, dark old-school ray bans, boat shoes and hair so white it looks like sand (from Cancun).

Or you know. Whatever.

Maybe there's palm trees in the back and on your lap is a coconut with a little bit of happy juice and by juice I mean some rum from the bottle half buried in the sand next to you so the popo don't see it and your machete is stuck at the base of the tree where you hacked the coconut open.

And maybe just maybe there's kid playing at jumping waves like I used to do with my dad - sometimes going into the way, sometimes jumping and occasionally getting beat up by them, standing up shakily, a bit terrified and dizzied wondering if you were still wearing your bathing suit or if the ocean had reclaimed what was rightfully hers.

Alarm clock goes off and it's my favorite part of the saturday, cozy up in bed, open eyes, hand flail on bedstand looking for glasses/waterOHSWEETGOODNESSwater/phone. Slip into sweatpants and shirt grab gym bag and walk out to the solstice except this time you're a bit more awake and you're a bit happier.

GSB. and AG.

Gym. Shower. Breakfast. And the sweet dulcet tones of Andy Grammer.

And the afterglow of bacon and eggs and pancake mix and cocoa powder and a pen from a special place.

-D