This morning I woke up early, by accident. I woke up out of a deep, calm sleep, and my body just felt ready to be awake. My pillow was neatly under my cheek, I was not face down, mouth open, with a tangy line of saliva dried onto my neck. My hair was smooth; gently framing my face in soft curls. There was just a tiny hunger burn in my gut, sorry, my core, because I had eaten the perfect amount of food the day before in relation to caloric output. I lightly arose from my bed to the aromas of the shade grown coffee that I had programmed my stainless steel machine to brew during the night. I had not overfilled the water, there was not a steady river of coffee running from the counter to the floor and pooling under the garbage can. Nope. Just perfect execution in this dirty-dish free kitchen.
I drank my coffee from an artisan mug that was a gift from a colleague. Smiling at the sun rise through the window, I decided that I deserve a day off of running. I did not spend a second longer debating this, I did not once slap my upper thigh with my hand to see how much it jiggled, I did not weigh myself and then decide that I do, in fact, need to go for a run. I simply sat down in my suede easy chair and ran my hands along my legs in a warming, self-appreciative manner. I feel so comfortable in my body and love my imperfections. I don’t spend a second wondering whether or not I should get bangs.
I am feeling very grateful that I have the ability to make good decisions for myself, and that I’m always confident that the decisions I make are the right ones. I am inspired by my long-term goals to work hard now, so that I will have what I want in the future. I do not fear failure. Doubt? In myself? None. An invasive feeling that all of the choices I have made up until this point have been in complete futility? That there is little to no potential for me to be successful in the future due to the mistakes that I’ve made in the past? That I’m a total fraud and completely incompetent and incapable of doing any job properly? God no. My faith in myself is at an all time high. Talent and experience can only get you so far, says my horoscope. I couldn’t believe in it more. I might not know how to do anything - like, anything - but dumber people have faked it. Not that I ever compare myself to anyone else.
My day went swimmingly, without a hitch of existentialism or pit-stains. I was on-time for everything, I did not sit in my car outside the gym for thirty minutes texting my friends in the hope that someone would give me a good reason to turn my car back on and head elsewhere, I did not feel weird walking on a treadmill next to an indisputably anorexic girl running. I showered immediately after sweating to keep my skin clear and soft. I did not eat dinner standing up. It was not a bag of chips and salami. That was not what I had for dinner. There was no shit-talking about the people that I had ran into throughout the day to my best friend on speaker phone while I force-fed myself sodium. I did not get sore lips from how much salt was in my dinner. No, I had crock-pot prepared a stew in the morning and let it simmer all day, using all organic and gluten free ingredients. I know what “bay leaves” are and what purpose they serve, so I used them. I ate a measured portion of the stew that I made from following a recipe, but also adding a bit of my own flare into, because I love myself, and take care of myself.
Evening time is my favourite time, because I never, ever feel lonely or unfulfilled by the events of my day. I don’t know what people are referring to when they talk about “chasing yesterday” nor do I have any concept as to what the feeling of “am I doing the right thing with my life?” is all about. I fall asleep almost immediately because I feel so genuinely satisfied with what I’m doing, so secure in my relationship, so fearless about the future. I don’t stay up to all hours of the night, tossing and turning, running through my “options” in my head, flip-flopping on whether or not I should move to a new place, wondering whether or not I might actually love him or if when people say “oh I just knew when we met” if they’re just absolutely full of shit or not, turning my light on and eating an apple and almond butter sitting against the wall, staring at my very empty double mattress on the floor. No, I have a bed frame, and a box spring, and I am not worried that maybe I ought to give up all of these outrageous dreams and marry a banker and raise his children and get a yellow lab and shop at Urban Barn.
I do not feel strongly pulled to move to NYC and audition for SNL but talk myself out of it because I am a hack and have no real anything to show for anything. Like, how do you just fucking move to New York? How? Like some sort of refugee? Claim that status that implies that you will be killed or persecuted if you go back to your home country? Is that refugee status? Fuck me, I have forgotten everything I learned in university. I’m about as generic as it comes - citizenry status wise - so would I have to, like, kill someone in Canada and then show up in New York? We don’t even have the death penalty, I’d just go to jail, like an idiot - where on the jail asshole sliding scale do refugees land? Worse than murderers? Everyone fucks the shit out of pedos - go to sleep. You’d just be one in a million other “creative types” shlepping around warehouse parties thinking that a new follower on Twitter means that you’re “getting there” or that “it’s all happening.” Can you get a green card online? No, fuck it - I should just get knocked up. That would give my life purpose, at least. So would an iPhone. OMG, what if my gluten sensitivity actually made me barren and I will never be able to get pregnant? I had those cysts on my ovaries - that can fuck you up, damn it, do NOT forget to go to that drop-in clinic this week to make sure you’re not dying. You’re not dying. I’m not dying. Where’s my laptop I need to google - oh, holy SHIT - fifteen minute emotional internet rampage - slam computer shut rigid back flop into mummified thinking about STD position. Go to sleep go to sleep go to - I should lose ten pounds to give my joints and insulin and digestive system a break. I should work out so hard tomorrow and get crazy fit and - honestly, if I had stuck with basketball, where would I be now? Like WNBA? No, probably not. Those chicks can dunk, you could consistently hit baseline jumpers, but that was about it. I was pretty legit, actually. I wasn’t that legit. Am I happy? I’m hungry. You’re not hungry, Katie, Jesus Christ. Do you have to capitalize Jesus? I mean, it’s a noun, so yes. You’re dumb. I have to write a book. I have to write a book. I am actually so good at spelling. How the fuck do you even start writing a book? What if I became an author? JK Rowling was bankrupt and depressed before she was the conduit for Harry Potter. Elizabeth Gilbert wrote a fucking book - she wrote two! As if there is a Hangover 3. God, Kristen Wiig is a HERO for not agreeing to make a sequel to Bridesmaids. Sequels should be banned. Michael Bloomberg banned so much shit in NYC and people get all worked up about their rights, but I swear if I just had my own Bloomberg banning me from doing all the dumb shit I do I might be better off. I don’t trust myself. So many people just settle. That’s a thing! Settling! Terrifying. Oh god, divorce would be terrible. Or maybe it would be liberating. Being a divorcee with long fingernails and a drinking problem would be kind of sexy. Roll over. Shorts are twisted. Fuck, I should have bought the smaller size. There is too much fabric here. Should I masturbate? I might be going through my pre-bestseller angst and anxiety riddled phase. This might be it. This is not it. You will never do anything. You think way too much. Shut off, brain.
No, I click my bedside lamp off, softly purse my lips and slowly close my eyes. I am present, I am pure. I am on the right path. A path that I have chosen and am walking along, without hesitation or doubt. The coffee’s on. See you in the morning, curls.