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  • the artist's way by julia cameron
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    i didn’t go home

    last night, after an indulgent haircut at the local salon (what bliss to pay $30 for a head/arm massage, facial, and cut. ooooo.), i didn’t go home.

    my phone must have still been sitting on the kitchen table, so i dug out two quarters from the mess of graham crackers and diapers in my purse and used a payphone. “hi, honey.” i said. “i’m not coming home.” [i didn't feel like pulling an entire nora helmer; there is, after all, another baby on the way.]

    and then i was alone in the perfect night looking beautifully styled, hoping the well-ironed locks masked the flour/applesauce mixture henry had smeared on my shirt just before i walked out the door.

    i window shopped. i oohed and awed over anything i wanted to in janie and jack. i touched all the pretty china in crate and barrel. i took myself to joseph beth and sat in the bistro eating a baked brie covered in caramel and almonds while i read.

    i didn’t think about kids. or dental school. or residencies. or dirty dishes. i thought about my own piles of aspirations.

    it was nice to be with myself again.

    8 comments to i didn’t go home

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