Rufus turned two last month. His favorite phrases right now are “need help” and “that one;” when he wants something he’ll often point and say “my that one.” He takes all his stuffed animals to bed, and sometimes his ball, and sometimes his smaller toys like his trains and Elmo and Cookie (Monster) and sometimes he wakes up at 3am crying because he’s lost them in the pile of stuffies and we’ve since learned our lesson.
He loves water. Our weekend ritual lately is toddler swim classes at the YMCA, followed by a gas station on the way back that has (surprisingly) good fried chicken. While I’m bitter at the need to drive everywhere in Detroit we’ve been blessed with a beautiful new park by the river, and the Asian groceries stores in the burbs are all expanding with food courts, which we would frequent more if we weren’t so tired.
The other day I wrote the beginnings of a new short story. A good sign, that my routine is stabilizing (though, I get deja vu writing those words, so we’ll see?). I still struggle to get outside, get enough exercise, whether by inertia or exhaustion or excitement about making things. These days what counts as staying active is often just walking around inside Target on a humid day. (Maybe I should swim more, on my own?)
One way I’ve been trying to refill my glass is by dedicating time to fart around. Cue Vonnegut:
I go out to this newsstand across the street where they sell magazines and lottery tickets and stationery. I have to get in line because there are people buying candy and all that sort of thing, and I talk to them. The woman behind the counter has a jewel between her eyes, and when it’s my turn, I ask her if there have been any big winners lately. I get my envelope and seal it up and go to the postal convenience center down the block at the corner of 47th Street and 2nd Avenue, where I’m secretly in love with the woman behind the counter. I keep absolutely poker-faced; I never let her know how I feel about her. One time I had my pocket picked in there and got to meet a cop and tell him about it. Anyway, I address the envelope to Carol in Woodstock. I stamp the envelope and mail it in a mailbox in front of the post office, and I go home. And I’ve had a hell of a good time. And I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don’t let anybody tell you any different.
Electronic communities build nothing. You wind up with nothing. We’re dancing animals. How beautiful it is to get up and go do something. [Gets up and dances a jig.]
Maybe it’s ironic that I need to plan to idle, but it’s where I am right now. Julia and I usually give each other a “me night” a week, where the other person feeds Rufus dinner and puts him to bed—prime farting-around time. But I’m trying to get in an hour a day otherwise, which has been harder than it sounds.
Anyway, here are my (loose) Rules for Farting Around:
- Utilitarian screen uses only (GPS, messages)
- You can have an inkling of what you want to do, but no set plans in advance
- Listen to your body
Last week I drove in a direction that would likely result in sushi or ramen, went to one place that turned out to be closed, then found another (a recently remodeled grocery food court!), and ended up a thrift store where I found a charging stand I’d already been eyeing for my phone and watch. Definitely ironic.
