Enjoyed an evening out, so no chat for me.
Linking up with Kate and the crowd. We: celebrate.
We don’t party enough.
I can see your faces now. The horror. I can hear the gasps. “Oh, no! She’s descending into a pit of licentiousness! Close the laptop! Close the laptop!” Much hand-wringing and gnashing of teeth.
We don’t party enough. We don’t celebrate enough. We don’t enjoy enough.
Tonight I had dinner with a friend. In the midst of our conversation, I had a moment. I didn’t let her in on this moment, lest she think I was completely crazy. Our environment came into sharper focus. Peachy-colored paint. Mismatched flatware. The shifting, scittering light of dusk. The tingle of a bell. Smells of pepper and sour cream and guacamole. The startling touch of ice on my lips.
I thought, “This is it.”
In the middle of an ordinary Mexican restaurant on an ordinary Thursday evening. Strangers to the right and strangers to the left. Servers and water pitcher girls and busboys. Shredded chicken. Tortillas.
This is worth noticing, worth savoring.
So much, we take for granted. The person will always be there. The thing will always happen. The routine will never change.
Until the person is gone and the thing stops and the routine is blown to bits.
When used as a verb (with an object), celebrate is defined as “
It is to step outside of the mundane, even if just for a few seconds. It is to set aside the stressful. It is to choose to see the special. The blessings. The holy.
And we don’t do it enough.
Hug your friends. Kiss your spouse. Pet your dog (or, if you must, your cat). Eat a second piece of cake. Breathe in the chill of the night air. Marvel at the sunset. Turn a simple supper into a feast with fancy glasses filled with clinking, glittering ice. Turn off your phone. And your tablet. And your computer. And the television. And the radio. Sigh and smile.