From least recent to most, starting about two weeks ago.
The One Where I Blacked Out And Flew To LA Alone. I woke in a hotel with a nice, white duvet and heaps of sun pouring through an open window, taunting a ferocious hangover. I looked outside and saw palm trees. I looked down and saw an open suitcase with winter clothes spilling out. It took a while to figure out, but I’d apparently drank myself black-out drunk, purchased a plane ticket, maintained zero consciousness on a cross-country flight and arrived in California, by myself. And with no clues re: my motives.
Visiting my sister this past weekend, we sat with her toddler son while he dumbfoundedly stared at a passing train, cast under some spell. We quietly admitted to each other how long we held out hope for Santa turning out to be real — for magic to be real. For kind of a very long time.
On a family vacation circa late elementary school, my family visited Canada’s west coast. We wondered the dark beach with sand so different than the sugary stuff we frequented on the Gulf of Mexico. Tiny tidal pools filled with salt water when the ocean lapped up the shores, refreshing (I assumed) all the tiny life living inside.
Our parents told us it wasn’t uncommon to find busted geodes on the beach. As obedient, blindly-optimistic and super greedy children, we aggressively scanned the stretch. Not long into the hunt, my sister uncovered a small hunk of amethyst. I was an asshole so I immediately resorted to loud horse noises and grump-shuffling. I grump-shuffled my foot across another jagged rock revealing purple crystals. Washing my bloody foot in the saltwater, I clutched the stone in my hand thinking, “Duh.”
Only a few years ago, while recounting this story with my parents and sister in front of a new friend did I question the duh magic of the coincidence.
Me: “—wait. Did you guys put the rocks there?”
Katt: “Did you never notice the price-tag remnants on your hunk?”