By Katt
The day starts with a 2 mile run and several polite “good mornings” to all the other health junkies and dog parents trying to get some fresh air before the humidity really sets in. Closing that exercise ring before 10am is always a good feeling and chases away any potential guilt that may creep in if I don't. 9am is the perfect time to head down to the neighborhood pool with breakfast bar and book in hand. The same group of ladies is always at the pool in the morning. We share reading recommendations and sunscreen until the nannies appear with their rowdy hoards of kids hell bent on ruining our peaceful poolside book club.
I take my place on the couch in the living room around one and try to watch a movie while indulging in my cat's demands to play and once my cat has decided he's done with me, it is time to try to get some writing done. While normally I would be staring at a blank screen counting how many times the cursor blinks before I start writing, today I can actually hit the ground running and get a whole chapter outlined. My productivity can only be halted by a text from one of three people. “Happy Hour @ ____, be there or you're kicked out of the friend group.” Less of a threat, more of a promise. Either way I am going.
It was never peer pressure that makes me go to breweries across the KC metro area 3-4 times a week, but the reminder that I have friends who aren't related to my softball days. Friends that I have by choice, and not out of convenience. Pulling into the gravel parking lot of our usual brewery means the first round is free and our favorite waitress has already put in our food orders. Is this what it feels like to be retired? As a millennial who will probably never get to retire, I will go ahead and assume it is.
“Y'all ain't gotta go home, but you can't stay here,” the waitress says while deconstructing the great beer-amid of Cleveland, MO. Routine dictates we finish the night at my married friends' property. A short hop over state line, some train tracks, and down a dirt road lead to the hobby farm of my dreams. The barn boasts an eclectic collection of craft beers in the sticker covered fridge and none of them are any help to my cornhole game. The only twin size bed I will ever willingly sleep in is made up in the guest room and is calling my name.
Not bad for a Tuesday in June.