My lifelong girlfriends -- you know the kind you never really have to try around because you know each other so well -- are a 13-hour drive away. They're probably having coffee -- together -- at my favourite cafe, eating the muffins I would have for breakfast every day if I were there too, discussing how incredible it is that I haven't yet torn my hair out in frustration over living here without them (but they know I wouldn't do that; I have really great hair).
All of this unfortunate, but natural, tendency to compare my existence with that of my friends and loved ones who live different lives than me because they made different choices makes me wonder if the paths I've taken were the right ones; they haven't yet led me to the places I want to go (obviously -- I'm in Edmonton) but if they don't before too long, maybe I should change them.
Either way, my life will always be pretty sweet. I'll always enjoy a decadent morning over something indulgent, in good company (most days mine is just as good as anyone else's), making time to write or lose myself in a juicy magazine or romantic novel. I do, however, wonder if those mornings would better begin waking next to someone (who hasn't gone to work at the crack of dawn and isn't a child or a cat), climbing out of bed unhurriedly, strolling over to a small coffee shop on the beach -- no less than minutes from our door (a definite requirement for me) -- and either hopping behind the counter to help run our bustling livelihood or parting ways, leisurely, as we head off to our respective workplaces -- my dance/yoga studio and his private clinic (or whatever suits his fancy) -- reuniting with our kids (no more than two) or, if we need some adult time, only each other for a divine dinner that is always accompanied with at least one smooth glass of red or a perfect margarita.
Sound like a fantasy? For a few adventurous, brave souls who choose to go against the grain, damn the man and make their lives exactly how they envision happiness, it's reality.
I met one of these rare birds on another one of my yoga-immersion getaways six years ago in Mexico. For a month, I lived in Tulum, a tiny town a couple hours south of the more heavily frequented Playa Del Carmen. At the time, there were no coffee shops in what is now a tourist haven, so I rode a (somewhat) sketchy collectivo (taxi-type van) into the bustling world of Playa every weekend for a stellar mocha and some bonding with the locals; in particular a tall, broad-shouldered, beautifully tanned, charmer with a captivating accent piqued my interest and cavorted with me on nights I didn't want to wander the streets unattached.
This guy was happiness embodied. He had left home (which country escapes me -- he was pretty, so it's understandable) where everyone in his life lived to work and moved to the Mayan Riviera without a second look back. Upon arriving in Playa, he quickly made a warm circle of friends (in case you haven't been to Mexico, most of the locals are inviting and make finding good company effortless), rented a small, but cozy apartment overlooking the beach and opened a cafe on a pedestrian-only street a block up from the water. By day, he flirted with patrons, enjoying his easy success and solid, laid-back living; by night, he dined at any of the countless charming bistros operated by his friends and neighbours with more than enough willing women (what can I say -- it was a good accent) and men with which to while away the hours. Not too shabby.
If I ever convince my partner to drop out of the rat race with me and live the sweet life in paradise, I'll be one fulfilled lady. I may have champagne taste, but I can adapt if it means working to live and enjoying every moment. I never said I had to live the life of a millionairess; I have, however, always made it crystal clear I expect my inner circle to me to make me feel priceless -- or at least like Kim Kardashian's 20.5 carat addition to her ring finger -- that would do just fine.
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