Infatuation is a fake out that rivals an inaccurate home pregnancy test.  It’s right up there with morphine or chocolate.  You get sugared up and giddy, becoming the idiot who smiles to herself on the subway.  I’ve seen these happy people and hoped I’d work up the courage to bitch-slap ‘em. 

“Get a goddamn room, lady.  It’s frickin’ bittercold, rank, and dampass outside, the bottoms of my jeans are wet, my hair is frizzed, and everything is too tight.  And now I have to go home and walk my dog.  Stop smiling; you have bad hair, tapered jeans, and you should get that mole removed.” 

I hate people who smile to themselves.  I caught myself doing it today in the reflection of a subway window.  Quit it Klein.  You’re becoming one of them.

It has taken me a long time to get here, to a place of real joy. What gives me happiness lately?  An afternoon at Barnes & Noble, an evening at a wine store, my cozy white bed with Linus on my lap watching the underdog win and the good nice boy getting the girl in all of my chick flicks, chasing after the sun to get the photograph, learning new words, afternoon tea with some David Sedaris, reading a stack of cookbooks, making lists, making a stuffed chicken for close friends while we play cranium and drink wine, working on my writing, and telling stories and hanging out with Chris.

So now I smile because I know after work, I’m going to see Linus, going to drink some wine, going to do some writing, and if I’m mad crazy, I’ll even have a Barnes & Noble run at it.  I know I want someone to share it all with, but I have a strong sense it won’t happen until the book is published.  So for now, I’m going to sit back and do my thing, enjoying the moments. I’ll try not to smile on my subway ride home though.

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