29th July 2010
Nowadays I dream of a townhouse. Maybe two bedrooms, small garden in the front, an assigned parking space, walking distance to NYC transportation, a kitchen with a proper counter, and if possible, owner pays utilities…that’d be nice. Maybe I might even get this within $1000 a month. Highly unlikely, but here’s to Obama and whatever fiscal policy he can come up with.
There are also more realistic but still happy dreams of Cinnabon opening in Karachi maybe, of driving to Zamzama myself, of writing a column for a leading newspaper, of taking my sewing machine out of its box and getting started with a project- finally, of spending a day alone, sitting on the balcony and reading. Of having me time. Me time. I wouldn’t mind that.
Me time would entail the above balcony session, as well as the subsequent walk around the flats, followed by the extremely relaxing two hour bubble bath with a soggy book in one hand and a cup of coffee safely but unreachably perched on the ledge of the sink. And then the rare indulgence of watching a movie where nobody is blown up, and people amicably solve problems with a phone call and a run.
After that, of course, I will start missing the hub, and the dino-obsessed baby and his mom, as well as my mom, my sis and everyone else on this planet. I’ve had my fun people, you can come back now. Let’s return to the weekly routine of letting every day go by.
I’ve learned to appreciate every moment spent selfishly. Selfish is happy. Selfish and insensitive is bliss.
You’ll agree with this statement after you marry, you theoretical Mother Teresas of the world, even more after you have kids.
Solitude is good for one day, if spent well. It dilutes the bitterness.