2002-01-25 - 8:14 p.m.

I love going out to breakfast, especially alone, and I vowed this morning to make it an everyday occurance from now until I start work. Of course, I'll have to lay off the waffles, but I love the alone-in-a-crowd feeling I get, reading the paper or writing with my coffee until my food comes. Today I abandoned all pretense of reading the paper when my food came, because, truly, they are the best waffles I've ever had. I got strawberries and syrup instead of butter and syrup, and sat there like I always do, making sure my waffle to berry ratio was correct, and pouring more syrup over each section as I ate it. And when I was done, I left my money on the table and walked out. On the way out, there was a little old man with white hair and black horn rims and a hat, and I caught his eye and smiled and he said, patting my arm, "It's nice to see a young girl like you enjoying your food so much. My granddaughter does the same thing, with the syrup." I must have been humming to myself, or making pig noises while I ate for him to notice that across the room. Other than that, though, it was a good way to start today. I eavesdropped on random conversations, and once again resisted the urge to nick a coffee cup from there.

I spent the rest of this warm sunny day wandering around, looking for an apartment sign I'd seen a week ago, buying books for Monica's upcoming baby shower, writing in my journal in McCarthy Square in the bright sunshine, with coffee from the crazy deserted Mafia coffee shop. I looked around in some shops, and went and bought Simple Abundance, because everyone I know seems to be reading it now. I flipped through it a bit, and I realized that I already do alot of the things she recommends. I'm grateful, every day. I know how to stop and see the moment, when I'm standing on a corner swept up in the life of the city, when I see daffodils in Washington Square, when the carollers came to my apartment. I got crayons for Christmas, at 34, just to smell them. I have toys, and a mental list of smells that evoke my memories.

My problem is that when I do these things, I feel like I'm WASTING TIME. I'm not sure what this means, what this says about me. I feel vaguely guilty for spending an hour in a toy store, or for sitting in the park, writing. For nights spent writing in my paper journals, trying to fix a memory in place, to fill in its blanks with words. I'm not sure what it is I think I should be doing instead, either.

Anyway - am going out even though I don't want to. I bought a cheap, fluffy book and want to take a bath with my homemade (by Jane) bath salts and read it. Going to meet Deb for a drink. Won't be late, though. I need to start getting into something resembling an employed persons schedule, as to avoid trauma. And tomorrow morning, the gym.

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