After sitting around and reading the New Yorker, I said I needed to do something active. I imagined escaping to the mountains, or starting boating as a hobby. I wanted to join the ranks of the glossy. An activity where I could drink micro-brews afterward and talk about how gnarly or epic of a day I had. Instead, I took the girl to soccer practice, dumped (I mean donated) items at ARC, had a long conversation with a neighbor, and took the dog for a long walk. Nothing for posterity, just another day. Even the mundane deserves a picture frame.
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