Every once in a while, when I read my friends’ blogs, I have a small crisis of self. I read of Bill’s work sagas—much more high-powered and electric than any of my own—and think “Yes, I want to be a Busy Downtown Executive!” I read his recounting of exploits with the Kinder and think “Oh, yes! I want to be a nice Dad with two lovely kids and a pretty wife!” (I was going to avoid pointing out that I had a crush on Pam during sophomore year, but it’s nice to kick Bill in the butt now and again.)

And then, I read Lisa’s chronicle, and think “Oh, dear God yes, I want to be in Richmond again so badly”, and “I want to have a coterie of interesting friends who read the NYer at the pool and have both nipple piercings AND kids!”

Then, when I walk down the street on a Saturday morning on my way downtown, I realize that I am doing precisely what I want to do. Even though I might like to do it in Richmond just as well, or in Philadelphia, I love walking down a summer-baked street wearing seersucker trousers. I love the fact that I’m probably planning a summer evening cocktail party as I walk, and wondering where to station all of the fans so that both the people chugging drinks in the dining room and those clustered around the Pianola will keep cool. I love that I am planning to strip off the seersucker when I get home from shopping, and have already laid in provisions for the pickles I am going to make this weekend. I’ll get down to work, lay in a good six gallons of mustard pickle, a few quarts of lekvar, and run up a batch of spice cookies just to be safe.

That businesslike trot of everyday life, of seersucker and red brick sidewalk and mustard pickle, is an amazing restorative. Just when you despair of your place in life, put on your summer clothes and take a run to the Lexington market—I guarantee that you’ll feel fine the minute you smell Konstant’s peanuts.