12minds.com

It started, as these things often do, innocently enough and with the best of intentions. I needed soap and chose to be efficient and avoid a 12 minute walk to Target that would inevitably end with buying approximately 15 other things I didn’t need. (The last Target trip? Garbage bags and hangers. Now I’m not saying I regret the decision to also buy racquetball gear just in case my true calling was international racquetball star, but I sortof do.)

So instead of taking the trip to Target, I bought soap from Amazon. I get it delivered to my house AND I avoid buying needless other stuff. Plus, I get to both stay in sweatpants and feel accomplished. Everyone wins; Especially me. I ask for the soap to get delivered to my apartment because while I’m entirely comfortable having clothes, video games, and wine delivered to my office, apparently I think that letting my coworkers know that I use soap is weird and unprofessional.

Fast-forward two days and I have a sticker from UPS informing me that while UPS is cool with leaving a PS3 and DVDs and books on my doorstep, soap is going to require a signature. I live alone and my apartment doesn’t have a doorman or anything, so I can’t have anyone sign for it but me. I log on to the UPS site and I’m informed that for the low, low price of $40 a year, I can e-sign, reschedule deliveries, and even change the delivery address. In for a penny, in for a pound and all that jazz, right? So I bit the bullet and pay the $40…only to then be told that changing the delivery address? They can’t give me a specific date for it. And rescheduling deliveries? It’s the “Adding insult to injury” fee of $5.

Which brings us to today. At this point I’ve paid a little under $60 for dove soap. DOVE SOAP. And all UPS will tell me is that it’ll be delivered by the end of the day which translates to me sitting around the house having paid for the convenience of waiting for the most expensive soap in all the land.

At least I have time to practice my racquetball swings for the rest of the day.

In non-soap related news, I may have fallen in love with a girl I met at a bar. I’ve drafted the craigslist missed connection:

Location: Duffy’s Irish Pub

You: By the bar. Blonde, mid-20s, in full Packers regalia and double-fisting PBRs. You took a sip from one of the two open cans and managed to spill it all over your face. That would deter some people, but not you, my bacchanalian delight. No, instead of pausing, putting down one (or both) cans, and getting a napkin, you—without even missing a beat—finished you gulp and then used the entire length of your shirtsleeve to soak that stuff up. You then continued to drink and then cheered Green Bay’s first down.

Me: The guy staring dumbfounded with a look of disgust, shock, and admiration all rolled into one. This is what love is like, right?

Drinks soon?

I have recently come to the realization that it’s time for me to properly enter adulthood and buy myself grown-up furniture not from Target or even from Ikea. The first step would be to say goodbye to my futon-type thing that I got four years ago the week preceding my start as a 1L. It was $75 and allowed me to not sit on the floor – It met all of my prime objectives at the time.

Fast forward four years and it’s still there in a different apartment in a different city. But still it remains. There are tons of reasons to get rid of it – not the least of which that it sucks as a sofa. Every person, my mom included, who’s been in my apartment has made some less-than-complimentary comment on that sofa. And it’s true, it actually hurts to sit on it for too long and is only really for laying down on; however, I think one of the things I liked so much about it was that if it didn’t mean much, then I could easily move on.

A sofa as a metaphor for my 20s.

For much of my 20s I’ve disliked the notion of investing much in a particular person or place. In fact, I prided myself in my ability to pick up and just leave. It’s how I randomly went to England, how I quit my job after college and went to live in China, and how I went to law school. Mainly on whims but largely because I could. And for much of my 20s? It was great. It was what I wanted.

I don’t know if it’s that I turn 30 in under 2 months; or if it’s that after 10 years of moving around I’m ready to stay still for a bit; or the recognition that if I ever want to settle down, date, and get married, the lady may think that a $75 couch by a 30 year-old is a bit indicative of overall unreliability. Or maybe I’m just tired of my back hurting when I sit down on the damn thing.

Or maybe it’s a bit of all of those reasons. Maybe it’s time to set down some roots and make something of a home for myself. Maybe it’s time to find something and someone that saying goodbye to is damn hard.

Springtime. Time for cleaning, time for Lenten fasting and resolutions (of sorts), and time for change. Truth is, it’s always a time for change if you’re honest with yourself, but we being who we are, we all appreciate seasonal markers – Autumn and its leaves; Spring and its blossom; Winter with its new year; and Summer with its promises of grass stains and white wines.

The last time I posted here it was Winter. Today, it is Spring. I live in a new apartment now and I’ll say this: There is sunlight and there is peace. And it makes me happy.

I’m something of an early riser, so even on weekends I like to be up by 7. I like to open all the windows in the living room to let the sounds, the scents, and the light of the early morning pour into my small apartment. I make some coffee and I just sit for a little while — letting the heat emanating from my coffee cup warm me up, and letting the refreshing morning chill wrap me up in its embrace. I can’t help but smile in contentment. As one accustomed to always being on the move, always aware of the time and how precious it is, I have come to appreciate and anticipate these glorious moments of peace and solitude.

In our backyard (yes, I have a sizable backyard in DC) I have a garden plot. Of course, it’s not as large as the entire garden above, but maybe it’s the size of each individual plot. I know nothing of gardening beyond the notion that dirt, seeds, and water somehow translate into tomatoes or eggplants. There’s that sense of magic and mystery coupled with work and dedication that I appreciate and anticipate.

Anticipate.

Not in the sense of waiting for life to happen, but in the sense of wonder over what the next thing life has to offer after putting in sweat and work. Looking at a plot of dirt after tending to it and worrying about it and loving it, and waiting in joyful expectation to see what happens next.

Lately, I’ve been trying to apply that to work and to life in general. Be deliberate, be yourself, be kind and honest, and see what life gives back.

[photo via Sydney]