My Perfect Life

Sometimes I like to dream of what my perfect life might look like. I imagine it would be full of yellow painted rooms filled with early afternoon sunlight. I imagine thick wool socks padding around on hard wood floors. Floors that have been lovingly worn down by large, floppy dogs—following my every footstep.

I imagine black and white tiles in the kitchen. The kind you see in the movies. With tall cabinets painted cream and antique door handles. I imagine a breakfast nook, white shuttered windows and a barn-door-red tea kettle. I imagine mason jars and antique tins filled with bulk coffee and quinoa.

I imagine a covered back porch and an Adirondack chair. Denim colored cushions, faded from too many summers. A backyard with a fenced garden—tall sunflowers and nasturtiums peeking out of old wooden wine boxes. My fantasy would involve a large oak tree out front—a hammock hanging from is branches.

My room would be a vaulted attic. With exposed beams and a large window looking out over the water. There would be a tiny porch, with a tiny chair and a tiny table. My desk would hold a milk jar filled with wildflowers. My bed would be a kingdom of feathers and down and quilted goodness. There would be an antique rocker in the corner, nearby, a stack of books for midnight reading.

My perfect life would feel worn in. It would feel comfortable, and aged—with wrinkles and sun stains. The kind of life that allows for a deep sigh. It would be the kind of life that doesn’t make headlines. Instead, it fits comfortably into the back pocket—like a favorite novel, or the wallet that has been worn down to soft leather and imprints of old coins.

My perfect life wouldn’t involve a plethora of anything—money, people, things—it would be a life of substance. Not too much, not too little.

This life would involve a man who I can hold hands with. It would include late Friday evenings in front of a fire, legs on top of legs, reading and being quiet. It would involve yearly camping trips to places we deem “ours”. Hiking trails that end at the stars and private lakes perfect for late night swims.

This life would be full of traditions. Berry picking in the summer. Cutting down a Christmas tree in the winter. Hiking all year round.

This life would be based around the kitchen—canning together, cooking together, mingling over spices and tea blends.

It would include daily sessions of stretching. Aloe vera plants and the smell of lavender. It would include a meditation nook—and a place I can practice silence and being alone. It would include never having to wear real pants, and making my living teaching others to feel at home in their bodies. It would include vegetables in all forms, and radiant skin forever dotted with freckles.

My perfect life would include a body that I love and one that loves me back.

My life would be documented with silly pictures. The type of picture that every person has, boxes upon boxes of prints. So one day you can look back and say, “ah yes, here it is. This is what perfection looks like.”


It would not be an over-exaggeration if I were to say that this weekend I was in a funk.

And I am sorry to say, this post will not be about me getting funky fresh and awesome. It is about me feeling sorry for myself and having a tiny violin follow me around with a sad-faced cloud above my head.

Deal with it.

My life is pretty fantastic. I have a great job. I have amazing friends (seriously, I am the luckiest when it comes to my group of girls). My family is fantastic. I have my health. I think I’m pretty cute sometimes. AND I have my dog, who is the love of my life.

So what in the shit am I complaining about?

Who knows, sometimes that horrible, gut wrenching, soul crushing self-doubt seeps into your life. Perhaps I shall blame it on the old Ex, whose life–post me–makes me feel like throwing up. It is never fun to feel like a used kleenex after having spent three years with someone. Yes, bitterness… you are my friend at the moment.

So here is how my weekend went: me weeping for no reason, writing letters to people I shouldn’t write letters to, writing emails to people I shouldn’t write emails to, and eating a lot of chocolate.

Basically, I was a walking rom-com cliché.

And to make matters worse, my runners knee has come back, so I haven’t been able to run. Which makes me feel like an obese failure.

Seriously, can you hear the violin?

And yes, I am still kind of in a funk.

But here is what I know:

  1. My friends and I made oven roasted veggies with quinoa and non-dairy creamed kale while watching Crazy Stupid Love… best evening ever. This solidified my love of my wonderful, amazing friends. And my love for Ryan Gosling. I don’t think the man can be sexier… Did you know he can sing? Yeah, shut the front door.
  2. I have vowed to practice some form of yoga everyday. It centers me. It reminds me to seek peace. To let go of bitterness. To forgive.
  3. My friend from work posted this image on my Facebook and told me that she thinks of me and my life every time she reads it. It was a huge compliment. I am glad she sees me this way. I want to see me this way too.

Funk, be gone!