Then at that moment I am turning the corner, I become convinced, in a flash of pure truth seeing – it happens every time I loose myself and leave the plans before I can make them. I ask myself, ‘Can you die of happiness, truly?’ Is it possible? Can you at least get sick or make yourself commit to a Sunday afternoon of holding down your couch after a to fun Saturday?

Saturday started out plainly. I had wanted to go for a run and Ronda wanted cheese, friendship, and a glass of wine. At 2pm we sat across from one another catching up on the details of our lives, then she took off to shoot film and me to take a nap. Six hours later I was standing high above Sarah at an outdoor theatre wondering just why we should “wrap ourselves up like fajitas and roll down a hill” The idea, I suppose, was the emotional equivalent to a drug binge. The tossing together of a much disparate and presumably incompatible stimuli was possible, in a short span of twenty minutes, together constituting a sort of socio-familial archaeological bender, ya know – to see what came of it and acting like you are nine instead of twenty-nine. How much of your youth can be brought back, remembered, exploited, excused, laughed at, made known, and brought to the surface showing it’s permanenance while you should be watching the opera at an outdoor theatre with five of your girlfriends?

EVERY WAKING MOMENT.

We laid on our backs listening to operatic voices booming through speakers while surrounding blankets “SHHHHSHD” us and we drew constellations in the sky with our fingers; like ya did camping in the back yard of Mom and Dad’s house when you really were nine.

Turns out, I’m still five years old, in a mini skirt and heels.

Later that evening after a shot or two – well – I’m still twenty-nine.

I just have to say, I love my girls. Happy Birthday Hillary and Courtney