Some Days

You know how some days are just...bad? Nothing really awful happens, but neither does anything really magnificent. And for no apparent reason other than the fact that it’s cold outside and you’re lactose intolerant and Firefly was cancelled before you ever watched it, you spend your entire day in a funk. And you think maybe a snack will make things better, but then you burrito tastes like cardboard marinated in cheap soy sauce and your funk continues. So you watch Downton Abbey and put old files through the shredder and you start to feel like maybe, possibly it doesn’t have to be such a yucky day. But two episodes and three-fourths of a file-box in, the shredder overheats and you have to go face the real world again while it decides to quit hating you cools off. So you restart the dryer for the third time, hoping that maybe this time the damp will finally come out of your load of bath towels, and you decide to try and write something. You are, after all, an English major. Writing things is fun (right?). But none of your words are being obedient. You can’t get your jumble of thoughts and feelings to flow neatly onto a page, and you end up with a nonsensical puddle of phrases that doesn’t even come close to saying what your brain was trying to shout. So you give up and go to bed with a lumpy pillow and an itchy blanket, hoping but not really expecting that your funk-feeling will be gone tomorrow, and feeling rather melancholy in your realization that the entire universe is, in fact, conspiring to make your life miserable. And you think: What's the point in pretending to be glad about the world when reality is just going to constantly bite you in the butt? 

The answer, of course, is that not all days are nasty. There are some times when reality just gently pats your butt instead of biting it. (Or maybe reality avoids your posterior altogether. Maybe it just shakes your hand.) There are some times when you really can be glad about the world.

Because some days are just...good. Nothing really magnificent happens, but neither does anything really awful. And for no apparent reason, other than that it’s a Tuesday and you had orange juice for breakfast and Benedict Cumberbatch is in Star Trek 2, you spend your entire day in a little glowing bubble. You’re actually on time to your first class, and you find out you can make up a missing assignment, and everything’s going swell but you don’t even realize how swell until you step outside and the sun is actually out for what feels like the first time in a million-bajillion years. And even though the light is still gauzy through the clouds, the sky is actually blue and the air is actually warm (you’re pretty sure it’s a whole 35° F) and you can actually walk from one class to another without your coat. And you discover that those chicken salad croissants they sell all over campus don’t have high fructose corn syrup after all, so you feel even less guilty about eating them so often. And you smile by accident because your midterm isn’t really all that bad. And for once you're on campus when they play the National Anthem and you can feel your heart racing and part of that is probably because you just walked jogged up some stairs, but another part of it is definitely something more profound and patriotic. And, sure, Mr. Darcy is completely fictional (and it seems more and more likely that your future husband, whoever he is, falls under that category as well) but Tom Hiddleston isn’t (he has a Twitter account and everything). So, to celebrate, you go to the bookstore when you have a break between classes and you find a book and a quiet corner and you sit there grinning to yourself because the world is full of old stories and new words to give you chills. And you think: Maybe I won’t ever write a novel, but I can write a blog post. Or a Facebook status. Or a letter. So you write, because you’re an English major and writing things is fun. And you’re so overcome by things that you miss the bus. Twice. But when you finally catch it, you sit by a friend without even meaning to. And the radio plays two fantastical songs right in a row, so you have a dance party in your mind. And you go home, and you write some more. And this time your words don’t tease you, they take initiative. And you still end up with a puddle of nonsense, but this time it’s one of those delicious puddles that’s perfectly ripe for jumping, and somehow it’s what you meant to say all along. And you decide that it’s an almond-cream and Jane Eyre kind of a day (not to be confused with an almond-cream and Kelly Clarkson kind of a day) because the universe has apparently decided to forgive whatever it was that you did to offend it so.

And you know it probably won’t last, because both you and the universe are fickle things, but for now you’re content if not ecstatic. And you’re going to go make yourself some tea, and listen to good music, and read words that thrill you. And when you have to leave your temporary wonder to go back to that wretched-but-wonderful thing called life, where homework and budgets and the fact that you’re single all collectively slap you in the face, you’ll be at least mildly comforted in the fact that occasionally, every once in a while, there are some really, really good days.