These days.

I go to the Prospect Park to do sprints and burpees, then wind up laying in an open field watching the clouds, soaking in sunshine, while the grass itches the backs of my legs.

These days.

I go to a bar in Williamsburg, I drink a Moscow Mule, maybe two. I smile at the lesbian smiling at me. I talk to my friends, talk to other humans. I am curious about every single one of their stories. I want to dance, but I don’t.

These days.

I go into Manhattan with a friend, we have a plan for the day. But instead, I skip my work out and she skips her work, we drink a bottle of dry prosecco, get tipsy, flirt with the man making the bread, eat a bowl of al dente pasta for lunch.

These days.

This freedom.

I’m scared I’ll forget. I want these memories with me until I’m 80.

When I’m 80 I want to laugh and say “Remember when I was married to a Chilean? Remember when a man offered me a CrossFit gym on a second date? Remember when I was so young and so happy and slept on my friends’ air mattress in Brooklyn once a month and we lived like we were in a sitcom?”