It's Such a Perfect Day - Part Three

I had a hard time writing part 2 of this "perfect day" story. Why? Because if the beginning of the day was anything like part 1, I wouldn't care what happened the rest of the day. If my morning was like that, I could peel potatoes for the rest of the day and be fine. Still, I wrote the icing on the cake, and that was part 2. Part three seems especially greedy—not only that, but seeing as how there is zero chance of living to see 99% percent of this perfect day, this has been an entirely unhealthy mental exercise.

If I were to write a part 3, I'd go to a concert. It would be held in an indoor, intimate setting that holds about 400 people and lacks seats. All attendees would be cool; nobody would take 800 digital photos, no one would sing really loud in my ear, everybody would jump up and down during the appropriate songs and sing backup and cheer loudly when the lead singer cursed or mentioned our hometown. After the show, my friends and I would go get drinks, and the band would show up and have a few with us, and everyone would ask them intelligent questions about music and they'd share thoughtful answers. (Today, the band would be The Shins, but U2 or Foo Fighters or Tom Petty or etc etc etc would all be somewhat perfect.) They'd give us their private numbers, and the band would play at my wedding or birthday or anytime really, whenever they could swing it, whenever we felt like hanging out again.

I wouldn't get sleepy or look to see what time it was, and I'd feel good but not so good that I get sick or stupid. Leaving the bar at close with the woman I love, we'd run into God at the crosswalk. There'd be a little small talk at first—turns out He absolutely hates that "Footprints in the Sand" poem-thingy—and then we'd get into a little deeper conversation, how He pulled off X, Y, and Z, what were actually miracles and what actually weren't. Eventually, I wonder how to bring up the subject, and I finally just say, "Hey, what the fuck, man?" as I gesture toward our surroundings.

The Almighty then gives a shrug of His shoulders, shakes His head and says, "Yeah, man. I don't know what to tell you. I'm sorry about all this. But you worry too much, you know? You worry you're using too much water to wash a couple of pots! You're trying to save everything, and hold on to everything, and it's just not feasible. I'm telling you, and I would know, that it's not feasible. What, on Earth, have you seen that would make you thing you could keep things in order, in a nice little package? You can't even write a story about one perfect day, and you expect every day to be perfect?"

"You're a really decent guy, and you mean well, and you're trying. That headbutt you dropped on that dude today? Totally justified. Stop worrying. Living with this woman? Having sex with her? I mean, aren't you 26 years old? You don’t even know how to womanize! Do you really think I'm going to bust your balls for your actions within a committed relationship? You need to relax, Jack!"

We say our goodbyes and walk home, and the woman I love laughs at an inside joke of ours, and we watch some TV and we make love, and we’re both really pleased with the effort. She falls asleep, and then I do.