When I moved to Hollywood I imagined life in the fast lane: you know, I'd be a movie star and date incredibly rich men. I'd live in Beverly Hills where my neighbors would be as fabulous as I was. When I wasn't working on my next Oscar-winning film I'd summer on exclusive islands in the south Pacific, sun myself on white sand beaches and dip my toes in warm ocean waters.
I pictured all kinds of wild stuff. I didn't picture this.
Yesterday's exclusive island was a back yard, where we dipped our toes in an ocean of green grass. The kids played in a rented bounce house while the adults shared ample potluck food and drink, and talked of the usual things: work, home, kids, life.
I don't suppose cave people had a bounce house, but I imagine them squatting around the fire, sated after a meal, watching the kids play like cubs while they talked of the usual things: the hunt, the cave, kids, life.
It's deeply satisfying to be a part of this turning of the Earth, this slow twist of the spiral arm of the Milky Way, though this wasn't at all what I pictured. It's better. And my neighbors are even more fabulous than I could have imagined.