The New Kid

Right now, I am drinking a giant mug of coffee. I made it. I drove to the grocery store, I bought the beans (ground, not whole), grabbed a small container of half and half from a cooler lit with fluorescent lights,and walked a linoleum floored aisle to one of the check out counters with a person behind the register. That person was polite. She smiled at me and asked how I was doing, like you do. She does not know where I live or that I like nail polish or what days I have off from work. So she did not ask or say anything else. I got into my car and drove home, watching the bike lane when I made turns and looking around in awe at the colors that fall creates. I locked my car and unlocked my front door and took my groceries out of their plastic bags, moving them into my refrigerator.
When I woke up this morning, I opened my bag of coffee (ground, not whole)and filled the machine that sits on my black marble counter. I took water straight from the tap, right out of the sink, and pressed "On." The walls of this home hold scent inside, like a hug. They don't let anything out. The don't let anything in. It seems normal for a home to smell like coffee in the morning. It is normal.
I made toast, too. I took two pieces of bread- that I purchased, took out of a plastic bag, and put into a pantry- and put them into a toaster. The toaster sits next to the coffee machine on the black marble counter. It is not rusty, and it's not even new. It toasts the two pieces of bread perfectly the first time, and I put them on my plate, buttered them and sat down by myself at my dining room table. I have a dining room and a table that sits inside, which is probably normal as well. This room smells like coffee, too, and there is a large window that shows more of those fall colors. The walls are painted, not white, and there are framed pictures hanging. The floor is cold. Much colder than I am used to, which is why I am wearing socks inside my slippers.
Today, I do not have to work. There is laundry to be done, and probably a visit to the grocery store. Again. I keep having to go back because there are things I keep forgetting. Like breakfast food. Or something to cook for dinner. Or dishwasher detergent. Things I have not had to think about for years now.
This day is not remarkable. The weather is doing what it should near the end of October in Colorado. If I were to drape a scarf around my neck, maybe my red one because it's soft and the color is nice when my skin is pale, no one would look twice. It would be something anyone around me might do. But I had to try that particular draping method in the mirror a few times before I got it right. They do seem to notice some things, though. Like the way I amble, slack-jawed, through a grocery store, overwhelmed and thrilled and drowning in options. They probably think that I am just slow. They get frustrated with me as I block part of the produce section. They don't know that I am looking, perplexed and bemused, at the hard mangoes on the table next to the giant, alien-head papayas, wondering if anyone thinks that those things are actually ripe or worth eating at all.
I feel childlike most times. As if that Peter Pan complex needed any encouragement. This is pretty awesome; Everything that should not be new is new. Everything that should not be fun is fun. Everything that should not be interesting is novel. Those seashore postcards became boring, and now I can look at the world that has surrounded the people I know and be curious about it, and not be tired of it.
Everyone should be able to do this. Every single person should drift away for long enough that nothing is ever beige again. Not even the produce section of a grocery store, or the simple, underappreciated act of making your own cup of coffee. I'm not sure how to maintain a feeling like this. The best way might to keep track of its progress and give yourself a nice stomp on the toe once in a while if the things around you are not keeping you awake enough. This requires an effort to stay awake, of course. Otherwise, you lose track. And then you are bored again, forgetting that everything around you is absolutely worth seeing.