If Someone Asked Me Where I Hope I Am In 5 Years

I would probably start by saying that I hope I have an exposed brick wall in whatever home I’m inhabiting. Something about me has always wanted my home to have an exposed brick wall. Ideally painted white but hey, I’m crafty so I can make anything work. And there are window ledges large enough to sit on and I stack books there that I always say I’m meaning to finish but only get around to finishing them on my occasional weekends off where I’m not sprinting around. The books get a little dusty from not moving as often as they should and I perch succulents and cacti and trinkets on top of them in some sort of weird, knick-knacky display. There are plants sporadically around. I don’t kill them. They survive and thrive and make my home feel like one part hipster heaven, one part artisan coffee shop, one part greenhouse from Harry Potter. And it’s serene and sweet and cute and everyone who is in it feels instantly calmer and welcome and safe. I hope my mugs never match. And that there’s a mug in my cabinet for every mood. If you’re in my home and you want something to drink, there’s an applicable mug for your beverage that makes you smile and makes you say, “Oh my god this mug is amazing.” And I think about letting you keep it for a split second because there’s something so kismet about feeling like an object gets you. My furniture will always have a light dusting of dog hair. Some of it black and stubborn, because at that point Nukka will be 11 and at that age she’s allowed to do whatever she pleases. Other dog hair will probably be lighter and more spritely from whatever new dog is in our lives that she tolerates and I adore while also whispering in her 11-year-old ear at night that she’ll always be my number one. I’ll apologize to guests for the forest of dog hair they’re agreeing to subject themselves to by entering my house. But I’ll still never vacuum as often as I should because I secretly like the way my dogs smell and don’t mind it because it’s their house too. I’ll still be writing. A box of books will be sitting in the corner that I send to people I like and that I hide out of awkwardness because I don’t want to seem like I’m showing off. I’ll have told the stories from college and after, and some of the ones from before. None of them will likely be the next memoir that everyone’s banging down their doors to get, but they will find a home in kitschy shops and on the shelves of girls who never quite got it together. There will still be sticky notes abandoned on mirrors and the fridge and my walls with things like, “That time you and B went midnight floating,” and “Talk about how not to blackout on a first date,” and “Write about the best wines to pair with therapy realizations,” scattered around because I will still try to run in 9 different directions all at the same time. I will have tried stand up. I will decide it’s not for me but will say I’m glad I did it. I will still talk to Katie basically every day. Katie will have agreed that stand up wasn’t for me but she’ll have made me feel better about the travesty of it all. Ari and I will live closer together and she’ll come over for dinner on random weekday nights. We’ll sit on my porch or balcony or whatever outdoor space I have sipping red wine in candlelight laughing at how stupid we used to be. We’ll talk about Brooklyn and LA and we’ll remember my blue hair and my pink hair phase and she’ll still look great with or without bangs. She won’t stay the night because someone will be waiting up for her to come home. Chrissy and I will probably always have projects in our back pockets. Always be brainstorming the next best thing. Always be moving and working and grinding and pushing each other. But then we’ll just decide to go to the beach for a weekend out of nowhere and spend days just writing in the sand and not talking for hours because we know how to be around each other. And there will be someone new in my life. Someone who doesn’t mind that I hog the blankets or that sometimes I stay up until 4 AM without even realizing the impracticality of that but will find my go-go-go charming as hell. They will be able to tell you where the three moles on my body are and won’t ever call me intimidating like it’s a compliment. They’ll be able to give me space without worrying and be able to fill a void that I at one time thought was endless. My friends will love them. Greg will talk to them almost more than he talks to me. They’ll walk the dogs together and Greg will never hesitate to tell them embarrassing stories about me from college. They’ll be my emergency contact and I’ll never worry about them not showing up. They’ll have their own toothbrush in the apartment with the succulents and the brick wall and the books that I’m meaning to get to. And the plants will never die because I’ll make sure they’re in sunlight, and they’ll never forget to water them during the week.