I don’t know if people outside of the Pacific Northwest think of Oregon as wine country. It is. I enjoy drinking wine, but not nearly as much as I love being in the middle of rolling hills covered in grapes. This is how we spent last Saturday, with some long-lost college friends.
I remember now that I don’t hate summer. This was something I forgot over the course of eight summers spent in New York City. There’s nothing more demoralizing than walking to work at 6 a.m., already sweaty, odors of pee and rotten fish trapped in the vapor. Oh hey, gag reflex.
When I go to hell, it will feel like a subway car whose AC has failed. In August.
Portland doesn’t stink in the summer; if it’s hot one day, it will probably be chilly and raining the next. There are no tropical storms. You can swim in rivers without needing a course of antibiotics afterward.
I’m bad at planning — especially group activities, holy god — but I’m really good at going along with other people’s plans. And my unwillingness and impatience to organize these kinds of things makes me especially grateful when other people do.
On Saturday, I’ll be riding my bike 60 miles — also thanks to a planning friend. In this case, [urban] planning is her actual job.
Last time, I made reference to a fear of failure that I had indulged for so long that it had become a teensy bit crippling. Publicly acknowledging the things I’m bad at helps to stifle this. So yes, I’m bad at initiating practically any type of social interaction. But friends, that doesn’t mean I don’t like you a whole lot.