A sense of hedonism has the better of me lately.
I remember feeling this way once. It was about five years ago, soon after I lost my grandmother and job in the same week. I’ve come to understand that such is a passing phase, and that I should simply enjoy such guilt-free things while it lasts.
As a result, I’ve been selfishly monopolizing Pat these last few weekends.
An exorbitant amount of pleasure comes from the motley assortment of foods he prepares.
Over the course of a few summers he perfected his grilling technique, and has now moved onto a mastery of cold salads. We have an agreement when it comes to practicing his cooking skills, where he gets a record of his consumable accomplishments, and in return I get a memorable meal and some great photos. He often mentions that he’ll have to join forces with Karen, an accomplished baker, to provide the desserts. Baking ability is something that’s admittedly eluded him, as he focuses on entrées.
The other, less tangible yet truly sublime form of pleasure comes from our conversations. Pat’s a person who listens and contributes to a topic in equal measure. Someone who doesn’t just wait for his turn to speak. As a result, I’m comfortable opening up to him, something that I shy away from with most other people.
Lately though, it’s clarity that I’ve been looking for. Too often, I over-analyze my life, and it’s no secret that my emotions affect me more than I’d like.
In the end, nothing clarifies and refreshes like a couple mugs of tea and some good conversation.
I’ve been hogging Pat these last few weekends, stealing him from the rest of his friends and family, but I don’t care.
Hedonism is the new rule, and I’m giving in with caprice.