It’s been a sweet, quiet day. Ross and I both woke up early to meet friends, and when we went out of the house we were kissed with the most beautiful kind of warm winter sunlight—yellow and compassionate on our dry faces. I met Liz at what used to be my old breakfast hangout when I lived on North Harvard Street, and as we slid into a red booth I remembered coffees with Michael and winking at Erica over the table as Ben ordered his eggs and toast. Liz brought with her one of these little beauties and I stared at it lustfully while I consumed copious amounts of fried meats.

After we said goodbye I derived great, unexpectedly cheerful pleasure out of the act of driving home, singing my lungs out and grinning like a madwoman. I’m not sure why exactly —perhaps it was partly because I was tootling down the same streets upon which I learned to drive two and a half years ago, and it restored in me the sense of immense satisfaction I felt then—when I first realized that I was about to succeed at something I had been terrified of doing for years. On a good day, merely driving from one place to another can make me feel incredibly happy: brave, smart, independent, and free.

(I could also tell you how gratifying it was to vacuum the house in the afternoon and get rid of weeks of accumulated dust, but I suspect that might slightly detract from the liberated woman with wind in my hair thing I went for in the previous paragraph.)