letter to myself from 86 year-old me

by erika

Dearest,

Remember how you were told by that stunning grouch of a love, Anna, that you were the most decadent person she knew because of how you cinnamoned your half caf soy latte? You laughed, knowing that you keep your decadence at bay–not only because you can’t compete with mama katy when it comes to indulgence (though now in your 80s we are finally giving her a good run) but because why? why are you keeping it at bay? Decadence doesn’t have to be about money–it can be about time and self worth not net worth. Darlin, I want you to drink up splashes of rose water in your face after dancing, truly taste the deliciousness of sitting with a friend while holding their hand as you pet the softness of their human self, no matter what those hands have been through. Every spot, every wrinkle, is a road map that you can travel on if you just slow your roll. Decadence can also come from walking leisurely and noticing more–which is happening naturally now and mmmmm, what a vintage, this moment. The dictionary says these luxuries lead to moral decline–ok, so maybe if we marry decadence with opulence we end up gatsbyed–but I’m talking to you about lavender in your underwear drawer for nobody but you. I’m telling you, my moist-lipped beloved, as you tip into the 20s of this time, put the record on and dance in the kitchen with your boy for no other reason than Tuesday. Decade dance, baby, decade dance, decadence…

Happy New Year, kid.

Happy New Year.

yours,

86 year-old Erika