Nothing fills me up more than a good Date With Self.
The term “Date With Self” was coined by my mother, who, like me, enjoys the opportunity to get out and about without the stress of having to put on a nice face or keep up small talk with anyone. That could sound a little lonely, I suppose. I like to think of it as self-centered.
Because that’s exactly why Dates With Self have become so special to me these past five months. They are self-centered, not Seabass-centered or Jake-centered or Murph-centered or work-centered or house-keeping centered. And they are spectacular.
I had been looking forward to this morning’s Date With Self as though it would include meeting Johnny Depp, hearing the Beatles perform live and spying a unicorn. And while those things didn’t exactly happen, it did not disappoint.
A visit to Big Sky Cafe, with cranberry-orange buckwheat pancakes, and coffee. A long sit at the bar with the New York Times. A friendly chat with a couple of friends. A brisk walk across town, and – glory of glories – a manicure for my ragged fingertips. This was all I wanted. Amazing how happy the simple things can make me these days.