this morning I started to think that sometimes I romanticize life too much.

that I somehow “deal with or describe in an idealized” fashion the world around me, too much. particularly my own self and my habits.

I ponder that not every moment, every movement even, is worth savoring. that the way I rub my toes together when my legs are stretched out, my favorite way to sit and write, isn’t all that special. lining the curvature of each metatarsal together until they fit like pieces of a puzzle, is not unique. it’s universal.

and I am sure everyone does it.

but as I ruminate, watching the feet furl and uncurl, it becomes clear that it is not in fact that action of aligning these small toes together that is unique.

it’s the observing of it.

all my life, I’ve been a watcher.

I was timid to join soccer teams, I fought avidly against auditioning for youth theater productions, I was even too shy for activities with people I knew and loved. I didn’t want to rock climb, I preferred not to swing on monkey bars, and I’d be damned if you caught me riding any sort of object on wheels.

a good majority of this lack of interest in any-sort-of-participation-whatsoever, can be chalked up to fear. anxiety, mostly, held me back from yearning to be an active player in any of these dangerous games.

but an underlying factor in my decision to forcefully remove myself from the party, was the intoxicating notion that if I placed myself on the sidelines, I had a front row seat to watch.

I could spend but a million trillion hours watching people live life.

and that still wouldn’t be enough.

it is no surprise that I have now found my position in this world as a writer. the pen-ultimate, pinnacle, peak for an observant like me.

I spend so much of my days minding the details.

and collecting a multitude of moments. no matter how mundane, each more rare seeming than the next.

some of these I share, but so many I keep in my back pocket for a rainy day, when I’m having trouble describing a very specific feeling and so instead of “nostalgic” I might say that:

on my way back from my neighborhood walk to the cliffs I stopped at the convenience store on the corner, the one with two pumps for gas and a mural of every colored sea creature you could ever imagine painted on the parking lot wall. the door creaks as I step inside, probably on the hunt for a cranberry sprite as they are ever-so-elusive and finding one feels like obtaining willy wonka’s golden ticket. I scan the rows in the packed fridges full of drinks and I notice a bottle of Jones cream soda, the brand my mom used to let me and Max pick out at the store for special weeknight dinner celebrations, the ones that made a Wednesday in the middle of September feel like Christmas Eve. I snatch one of the cold glass bottles from the fridge and examine the black and white photo each bottle is traditionally dawned with — this one is of a couple in what seems to be an event hall. and they’re dancing. as I pay at the counter I smile at the clerk before I walk outside and twist open the lid with my sweatshirt stretched over my palm so as not to rip open my skin and I crack another smile, more soft and secret this time as I practically float home through the streets listening to Leo Sayer’s “You Make Me Feel Like Dancing.” I lick the sticky sweet tang of nostalgia from my lips as I grip the bottle tight to me and once I’ve finished the whole thing I toss it into the trash before I step back inside my home. it’s a moment I don’t mention until months later when it has become ritual and another brand of cream soda that I drink in replacement of wine on a Friday night nudges me to tell my roommates “you want to know something funny that I do.”

it’s the observer in me that romanticizes life just enough.

that cherishes eating a slice of lemon cake on a Tuesday afternoon whilst staring out the window contemplating earnestly whether or not priority mail would really be able to deliver to my father this luscious, butter cream rose that sits perched atop the slice of cake and is much too rich for me, however, would be perfect for him.

the word was familiar.

it’s the same observer that makes me feel lonely at times when I can vividly describe “heartbroken”

and its nearly 1:30 in the morning when I fling open the passenger side door of the Uber and when the driver asks if I would like to sit in the back I command that “no I would actually like to sit right here, if that’s okay.” and as I sob, I think silently, the man in the tan coat probably thinks he might ought to have an umbrella because tears are battering against his shoulder like a mini monsoon. he asks why I got all dressed up to cry and that makes me laugh a little because it’s silly but it hurts more cause it’s true. And I explain through the tears that my heart could not hurt more, that I’ve made a mistake this time and as we enter the freeway he asks if he should turn around, prompting me to fight for love and I assure him that won’t be necessary because I’ve gone 15 rounds in this ring already, doesn’t he see the bloody nose and the bruising slowly yellowing around my heart?

those are invisible things? I guess only I see.

every moment happens for a reason, he regales me with another story of a woman whom he gave a ride to last week and that part is blurry because I was trying too hard to grasp the meaning and the symbolism and so when it was over and he said, “so I think that makes perfect sense why you’re here right now,” that I began to cry once more. “Do you have a lot more rides this evening,” I inquired, “because I might just like to stay here with you.” As he dropped me off he gave me a business card and I said, “bye Michael” and he said “everything will be okay, Emma.”

every time I see his name in my wallet I smile because in the moment, it felt like I had thrown myself into the game, like I had finally decided to be the goalie dodging fast-flying objects on the field and yet one hand had tragically slipped, my grip loosening off the monkey bars as I braced for impact, to feel the weight of a broken arm.

but I’m so deeply into my role as an observationist, I opened my eyes to see but a few cuts and scrapes on my side and as I brush the tan bark off my clothes I think for the first time what a blessing it is to be able recount so distinctly every step of the fall.

it makes me wonder if I can be both the fervent master, observer in life and the one who lives fearlessly, after all.