An Ideal Day For A Less Than Ideal Person.
An ideal day is a day in which routine things feel like just that, routine. The shower doesn’t feel like your boat ride by Niagara Falls which was stuck dangerously close to the tears of nature for three hours, but instead showering is ten minutes where your Bluetooth speaker doesn’t power off in the middle of playing old Björk albums. When I approach the foggy mirror after showering, I’d notice that my stubble is light enough to the point where shaving would be overkill and thusly my morning routine is sped up by what feels like hours. I could go on juxtaposing the beauty of the mundane and explaining how normalcy creates and opens a window to endless excitement, but I won’t. One of my favorite moments in life is when the ratio between talking and listening to friends seems as nonexistent as good-tasting packaged ramen. It’s special when a friend can rant to you about how sick they are of listening to couples argue on and on about the effects of neocolonialism and how it’s altering the millennial’s psyche, and then you so graciously reciprocate with a vivid description of how you applied your hemorrhoid cream to your posterior this morning, all the while your friend sits there devouring their scrambled eggs. I want my ideal day to be filled with conversations, misheard and heard unwillingly. I need to observe to preserve. The day should challenge me to the point where I can say, “Oh look at that, another day where your anxiety stood at your doormat and only accomplishments came in for crumpets and tea, how lovely.”
Seinfeld. Lots and lots of Seinfeld. Preferably ones in which I don’t remember at least one of the sub-plots and George complains a lot. Television usually doesn’t become a cornerstone of what makes a good day for me, but Seinfeld isn’t television. I live and breathe “Festivus.” I host scars on my cerebellum from the “Airing of Grievances.” Escaping from the material world through a plastic and glass box containing dozens of LED’s is piously therapeutic. I’d ideally be sitting on a burgundy leather couch with cracks large enough to the point where I could lose my phone in each crevice and proceed to have minor anxiety after hearing a bing, and not being able to find the source. My arms would be crossed, my fingers deprived of activity or tingling, my lungs expanding and contracting calmly, and my eyes laying on metaphorical pillows. A large amount of my joy is from bodily awareness, or more specifically, the relief brought by lack of it.
My thirst for sexual innuendos will have been quenched by this point in the day after hours of Seinfeld and hunger would be reaching maximum notoriety. Perusing GrubHub isn’t as easy as it sounds. After countless Iliad-like battles with the logistics of online food delivery, Indian food would be on the way. Crispy golden brown samosas, spotted fluffy naan, succulent and naturally red tandoori chicken, all of these dishes lay helpless and barraged by a topping of cherry chutney sauce containing the beauty and pertinence of ambrosia. Upon finishing the meal I’d roll off the couch and onto the floor. My cat would come close to me, think about licking me, but in the end turn her head from such a gruesome figure. Feeling disparaged I’d scratch my way across a wooden floor and climb up to the nearby window. Watching as snow melodically lines the streets of Chicago, I’d think to myself, “Wes Anderson wouldn’t film here, there’s not enough contrived pastel coloring.” Simultaneously relieved and enraged by this fact, I would put on a Jean-Luc Godard film and wallow in supposed pretentious young adult sadness. This would for the most part complete my day. I’d then chug half a bottle of NyQuil and dream about airport anxiety mixed with poorly timed text messages. Analyze that Freud.