| Current mood: |  thoughtful |
| Current music: | ani difranco : loom |
I wrote an entry once about my perfect life. It involved a tiny, private wedding, a fast paced career with a high heel requirement, a country house and a pair of short, rowdy spider-man fanatics. It's a pretty idea. I still really love the entry and, honestly, if that ended up being my life I probably wouldn't cry about it. Too much.
It is not, however, how I'd like things to turn out.
At this point, my perfect life consists of an apartment with a big kitchen and a dishwasher. Someone I can love and trust and talk to, who laughs a lot and is going to respect my ferocious, frustrating, stubborn, independence. A job that stresses me out but makes me feel really good at the end of the day; a job that lets me wear jeans and flip flops every day if I want to, that doesn't care if my hair is bright red, that I have my nose pierced, that someday I may not be a size nothing. I want cats, just the two. Maybe a dog. No kids.
Some things haven't changed. I still want a tiny, casual wedding, and to live in a big city and I'd definitely take a mountain retreat and more than 12 minutes of real conversation a day with the man I love. I'd still like to make pancakes.
I just want walks in the park, a little flower pot garden, mounds of snow in the winter, and a reliable coffee maker. I want to do yoga and cook really good food; learn to make bread and a few choice Indian dishes. I want to get back to writing and maybe paint. I want an apartment that smells nice and doesn't have bugs and has enough room for me to have an office. I want whole days without a schedule and I want hugs on demand.
I think that's manageable.
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