What I Like.

I like where I live. It’s close to the city, but not in the city. It’s close enough to work (well, The Firm’s office, at least) that I can go home for lunch, if I want to.

I like going home at lunch: this generally only happens on the rare occasions when I’m working at The Firm’s office and not at the client’s, when work is a little bit slow and I don’t really have much to do, and when I haven’t already made lunch plans with anyone else. I’ll go home for lunch then; home, where it’s quiet and cool (usually, anyway), and I get to sit down at my desk and eat Doritos in peace. No health-conscious co-workers nagging me about my unhealthy eating habits at home, nope.

I’m actually trying to eat healthier these days, but becoming a Fit and Healthy Rae is a journey marked by baby steps rather than leaps and bounds; it is not an overnight change. I mean, Doritos are delicious, OKAY? And I am still mostly too lazy to cook dinner for one.

Anyway, I also like going home for lunch because it means that I get to read, or write, or even nap, sometimes. Sometimes I end up going home at lunch because I am in dire need of a nap.

I like wearing Havaianas during the commute to work on really hot summer days like today.

I like the feel of silk against my skin on really hot summer days.

Something else I like: the pressure that comes with participating in this self-imposed 9.37 Project. I decided to jump on Amber and Drea’s bandwagon: every day, at 9.37p.m. I stop to take a photo of whatever it is I’m doing at that very moment, and I share it on Instagram (I’m raihanaaaa on there).

Like so:

9.37p.m. on Sunday night: fixing lunch for the next day. I actually ruined this dish – my egg to cheese ratio was way off (dammit). 

I’m doing it because it forces me to become more mindful of what I’m doing with my time – my precious, limited time. There is nothing quite like knowing that the (mostly) faceless Internet is going to see exactly what I’m up to each night to really take the time to (sometimes figuratively) get off my arse and do all my things. And I do have a lot of things to do – working towards the big scary goals and all that, things that need to be worked on during the night after work and yoga, and trying to maintain a social life.

Also: chores. The laundry’s not going to fold itself, missy.

I’ve decided that I also like Sundays in Melbourne, particularly sunny ones (ha!) like yesterday. If you ever come to visit me, you should make sure to include a Sunday in your trip. We’d go to Queen Victoria Market to pick up the week’s supply of fruits and the odd vegetable or two (mushrooms are vegetables, right?). I’d buy you a lamb borek afterwards, maybe some doughnuts, which we would then take to Market Lane Coffee across the street, so we could wash them down with a lovely pour-over coffee, or maybe a latte. We’d sit by the windows and just watch people walk past, and talk about everything, or maybe just sit in comfortable silence together, lost in our own thoughts.

Later in the afternoon, after we’ve dropped the groceries off at my place, we could go to the Rooftop Bar and have a couple of cold drinks in the shade of a giant umbrella, watching the hipsters hanging around doing the same, listening to the ’90s music blaring in the background. You could order a burger and fries if you’re hungry.

Does that sound good? I hope it does. It’s not exactly a routine Sunday for me, not yet anyway. I’m really describing the perfect little Sunday I had last weekend. I’d like Sundays like that to become a summertime routine.

I like routines. (I also like breaking routines from time to time)

This is my daily routine: I stumble out of bed and into the kitchen, where I pour myself a glass of water, and down it while making myself some peanut butter toast. I eat said peanut butter toast while reading blogs and catching up on my Twitter feed. I wash down the toast and a multivitamin with a glass of milk, then wash the dishes, hit the shower, get dressed, and get out the door. I read a book on the tram into the city. First stop of the day: Brother Baba Budan for my coffee and some quiet writing time (although I should really make more of an effort to talk to people instead, sometimes). I’m often writing about the previous day, or writing to psych myself up for that day, or about the strange little thoughts that float through my brain.

Here’s a secret: sometimes, I am writing to God. It’s the only way I know how to talk to Him these days. As it turns out, I can’t stop wanting things. I want my life to turn out a certain way, and I need Him to give me a helping hand sometimes (and He is; sometimes these letters are thank you notes).

It makes me feel better to talk to Him.

(I know at least one guy who’ll be happy to hear that. I miss you, Boo.)

When it comes down to it though, I think it’s good that I still want things, all the big, scary things. I’d like to think that it means that I haven’t given up – on life, or on myself. I’d like to think that it means I’m still hopeful and optimistic – even if I cringe sometimes when I hear myself say these things. Drinking the optimism Kool-Aid, yep. And then I remember that there is nothing wrong with being hopeful and optimistic. You get what you project to the world. The things you love and want move toward you. I actually believe that.

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