#‘​unfortunately everything they say abt endorphins is real’ is the subtitle of this post really

[aeide-thea]

also like. sporty underthings privilege is stopping at a pond unexpectedly & realizing you can just. take yr shirt & shorts off and get in, and you’re covered enough to silence any critics, and when you get out you won’t be stuck in cold, sodden cotton all the way home??

(boy-ish scout privilege is that you didn’t bring a towel but you DID bring an overshirt just in case it got cold & you CAN in fact dry yrself off with that.)

[anyway honestly all of this is like. much more apparent to me than it might otherwise be bc i did live thru a very brief femme-enough-for-thongs period & i vividly remember the inconvenience factor of having one evening turn into an unexpected group sleepover & having my underwear NOT in fact function as sufficient coverage for a group of ppl not all of whom were my lovers. so like. just being able to casually unexpectedly comfortably strip down now is like. something to be wrigglingly tadpole-ly glad of.]

anyway that is a long preface to say that biking home still gorgeously damp from a pond down a back road in a golden summer evening playing orville peck a little tinnily on yr phone is like—it really washes away everything else for a time, and there you are, just you & the caressing air & yr strong-enough-still thighs moving you wherever it is you want to go. if you can get any of that for yourself—i’d recommend it. i hope you can. but either way let me gift you a little bit of golden evening calm—the perfect light & the quiet like a bath of renewing solitude, or a confiding little flickering flame in yr two cupped hands with the shore breeze curling & eddying around you, wafting & lifting, lifting—that unnoticed / & that necessary, the poem says, only: do notice, actually. notice, & let yr shoulders drop, & let the moment curl around you like a little cat, & lick you with its raspy little loving tongue. make yrself a drink. sit. breathe. <3