Feb 24, 2017
Every morning growing up, and even when I lived with my parents for the second and third time as an adult, if my mom caught me on the way out the door, she'd say: "Make it a great day.”
I hated it.
"Yeah, Mom," I sneered, huffing past, noticeably annoyed and inexplicably resentful.
"I'll go have a great day at my shitty job where I don't even make enough to get the fuck outta here," I'd stew on my drive in.
Today I woke up to Jimmy's eyes on me, squinting through puffy lids—“Time to get up, Babe," he said softly. It was pre-sunrise overcast and we both wanted to stay in bed. 30 seconds flat and we were laughing about a half-doze jibber jabber miscommunication. My toes clawed carpet and our panda baby boy cat began his chorus of morning meows.
I stepped outside to warm my damp thermal in the dryer and the crisp injected life into my cells. Cloud comforters made for a young, soft sky, the kind you'd paint on a baby's bedroom wall. My mother's words dawned in my mind, her voice so clear, like real.
"Make it a great day.”
It was the first time I realized that all those years, it was a choice, and now, I had grown into the kind of person who made it.