Waking up exhausted to the smell of Dodo Café’s Grand Cru coffee beans being ground in the secondhand coffee machine that makes you feel like a millennial who made it. You’re trying a new oat milk this week. Barista edition. You have an oat milk top 3: Koita, Bjorg and The Bridge. To be alive and 30 and have a favorite oat milk. Your latte sits pretty in the oversized clear cup you just bought to marvel at the layers of foam and coffee every morning. To be alive and 30 and happy and have a couple of favorite mugs. You eat from the plate your partner chipped a few months ago. It’s still full of charm. Another half of you has the same plate and the same teal tumbler in her kitchen cupboard across the world from you. You want to be across the street from her.
There’s a quiet serenity that follows your footsteps now. This is not to say that anxiety doesn’t ride on your back still, because of course, of course it still does. There’s no leaving it behind. There’s no starting fresh. When I was younger I thought being an adult was going to be being this brand spanking new person I had never been before. Like I would wake up one day and suddenly understand wine pairings and formulas on Excel. That I would suddenly be hosting dinner parties and making a mean cheese platter. But I know now that there’s no starting over really. It’s building around. I’m a collection of everything I’ve ever been before. But I get to choose. I can choose the parts of me I want to amplify and expand. I can choose the parts of me I want to keep to myself and care for in the quiet of my mind. Whenever there is quiet in my mind.
I want to remember today because I am happy. We chop garlic, chilis and ginger to stir fry chicken and broccolini. In the kitchen, we take turns at playing our music but these days there’s a lot of overlap.
“Hey Google, play Fake Patois on Spotify”, we say.
The music is too loud for my liking. I make a fuss. All my condiments and sauces are ready to go. Chopped garlic and ginger, scallions, mushroom soy sauce, oyster sauce, doubanjiang, muscovado, chili, sesame oil. We’ve been watching so many videos on the likes of About To Eat and BuzzFeed India and been replicating exactly none of them. It’s some stir-fry when I’m cooking, something with eggs when he is. Quiche and salad when we eat out during the day. Fish fragrant eggplant and chili vinegar dumplings when we out at night. We even tried this new bao place in Chinatown and were pleasantly surprised by the rapport qualité-prix.
Last week I bought a pair of pants. These pants and I, we have history. I tried them on in a store 2 years ago and loved them. Loved the way they hung loose and tight all at once and flattered whatever I want flattered. I didn’t buy them then because I had just bought an equally expensive pair of pants, a pair I’d been pining over for months. And so I told myself I’d come back after my next paycheque. And then my next paycheque rolled in but the pants were gone. The store stopped carrying the brand and my pants are somewhere else entirely. A hotel I’m told. I contact the designer online but I never hear back. I make peace but sometimes, I dream of these pants at night. And then 2 years later, I find them online, on another store’s website. Entirely by chance. Quarantine fifteen means I’m not as confident in my skin these days but I buy them anyway. These pants and I, we have places to be.
I’m at the beach in my new pants. Carrying my copy of Caleb Azumah Nelson’s Open Water in my blue Kreol Republic tote. Fitting. To be 30 with a newfound love for reading means you have more than one tote. It’s a good hair day and the ocean is still. I’ve read more books this year so far than I did in the past 5 years. I like this version of me. I saw a tweet this month that said that half the enjoyment of reading a book is feeling smug about reading a book. I can’t disagree with that. I’ve also been really into book photography. I buy books with orange, blue, teal, magenta covers. I take them to the beach, to the coffee shop, to the bush and take beautiful pictures of them. I love them. They're my babies and I want to carry them everywhere.
My job is the least interesting part of me. But that will change. I know it will. I follow a lot of Brown women on Instagram. I've fallen in new love with the platform. I'm grateful for the people I meet and the people whose Brown lives I get to witness up close or from afar. I'm reminded of my own potential for Brown joy. When you've spent the better part of three decades being out of sync with yourself, it's helpful to surround yourself with reminders of the legitimacy of your personhood. As is. No makeup no cover up no adjustment. I read queer books. I watch BIPOC shows. I enjoy this place in my mind.
Things tend to change a lot and quickly. I lack object permanence. So I stop to smell the flowers. I linger in the conversations. I go to the beach when it's grey. I eat the extra croissant. I buy the overpriced strawberries.
I want to remember today because I am happy. When you've spent most of your life curled up in an emotional ball of hurt and self-pity, happiness is hard to believe. It feels like a con job. Like you’ve somehow conned yourself out of your misery but it can’t possibly last. Your brain knows the path to hurt all too well. It’s well-trodden and familiar and waiting to be walked again. I want to remember today because I want to know that I found my way to this place once before and I can find my way back.
Beautifully written, profound thoughts. I love the cadence of your writing.
Soon baby girl ♥️