Post workout, I scribbled my daily gratitude note. I chose “breath.” As I wrote it, it dawned on me that in a week’s time it’s the fifteenth anniversary of when my breathing almost ceased.
I am a freaking cliché thanks to this damn pandemic. Excessive online shopping, cooking, baking, drinking, exercising, protests, plant babies, alternating between being glued to CNN or binge-watching popular series.
I don’t usually gravitate towards psychological thrillers. I’m unsure about the reason. I enjoy them, even if a majority of the time I figure out the plot before it’s revealed. Things unfolded slowly and kept me guessing. The only part that felt rushed to me is the obligatory explanation of the villain’s backstory. It seemed to come out of nowhere, but it explained a lot and allowed for the book to progress as it did.
King’s Hawaiian rolls can be enjoyed with or without butter. Straight out of the fridge or warmed slightly in the toaster. More often than not, I’m too greedy to wait for the toaster and eat it chilly. A bad habit I have is putting a smattering of butter, taking a bite, then adding more butter to take another bite. Unhealthy, I know, but we all have our vices. It could be drugs!
The Worst Best Man was a fun read. The characters, including Lina’s family, were well developed with their own background stories that tied into how they supported Lina. There are no mixed feelings when it comes to Lina, Max, or Andrew. I like that Sosa sprinkled in plenty of Portuguese, Brazilian customs, and delicious-sounding dish descriptions that made me want to hop onto Seamless and search Brazilian restaurants that deliver to Bed-Stuy. I’ve only had a few Brazilian eating experiences, one being on the company dime at Fogo de Chao. My taste buds were not the least bit disappointed with the savory meats and side dishes. The same can be said for my experience listening to The Worst Best Man.
I am a published writer in an anthology with Nikki Giovanni, V (formerly Eve Ensler), Kevin Powell, and over a hundred other writers. 2020: The Year That Changed America has changed my life.
I quarantined alone this whole pandemic. I spent every holiday alone in this living room. Struggling to stay positive, on Easter, my birthday, Thanksgiving and Christmas, I selected a pretty, colorful outfit—with heels and dangly earrings, and a crown on my birthday—cooked a feast grand enough for relatives you see only once a year and want to impress, grabbed my selfie-stand and ringlight, set my phone’s timer and acted as Creative Director of my own photoshoot. My food, my smile and I look damn good in the photos. Make no mistake: there were tears before and after. Each. And. Every. Time.
I don’t care if the last episode I watched was the season finale or the series finale, I’m missing the characters, plot twists, great dialogue, writing, cinematography, lighting, bomb outfits, enviable hair styles, steamy sex scenes, stuck-in-your-head soundtrack, relatable themes, podcast recaps, WTF moments, and group text chats about these shows.