I wanted to attend a Sabr Day event, but I found the prospect intimidating.

I looked at the event in my area and while it seemed like a good opportunity, it just seemed a bit too cumbersome. Not in distance—it was walking distance from my house—but the prospect of walking into any crowded room intimidates me.

I think I have a special breed of anxiety that makes being alone in a crowded room full of people that may or may not know each other absolutely suffocating.

I was especially intimidated, considering I don’t really meet the SABR Day demographic, especially in this area.

The SABR Day event, which coincided with the Bob Davids chapter’s annual meeting, was the 38th annual meeting for this group. Quick math tells me this group has been meeting to discuss baseball 11 years longer than I have been alive.

Not only was I battling a generation gap, I would be battling the gender gap.

But the overwhelming desire to talk baseball during hot stove, and the interest in exercising my right to assemble as a SABR member won out—and I decided to attend. Fortunately, David Spencer from Tarp Talk agreed to accompany me, which lifted some of the anxiety of the gathering.

When I arrived at the registration table, there was some confusion by the man behind the table as to whether or not I was in the right place. Perhaps my penchant for skinny jeans, high-heeled boots, and lip gloss confused him… but here I was, standing in front of him asserting I was not lost and that I should be on the list.

Of course, I wasn’t on the list.

Fortunately after a short conversation further assertion that I, Cee Angi, was in fact a SABR member who has indeed chosen to spend their Saturday at a conference talking baseball and that I wanted in. Oh, and I wanted the student discount as well. They were out of name tags, but at least I gained entry.

And when I walked into the meeting room—a banquet room at the Holiday Inn in Rosslyn, Virginia, I was overwhelmed by a sea of baseball fans. The little round tables were packed and resembled a poker tournament more than a baseball meeting.

The men that filled the tables were a mixed bag. Some were older than my grandfather, and wore baseball caps in styles they no longer make. Others were freshly retired and dressed for an afternoon of yachting. But mostly, they were middle-aged and in frumpy fashions: jeans with unfortunate hem lines, white tube socks, AARP issued all-white tennis shoes, and a baseball jersey proudly showing the crowd of 130 their baseball allegiance.

And though mid-afternoon lent itself to a game of “Count How Many Men Look Like Bud Selig” it was comforting to be immersed in baseball in January.

When David found me, I was standing in the back of the room, overwhelmed by the fact that there didn’t really appear to be anywhere left to sit. Met by awkward stares as we approached the table in the front, we were able to shuffle a couple of people to make room for us, just before the meeting started.

David Vincent, a Bob Davids Chapter board Member, was the Emcee for the afternoon and he started with a presentation on pitchers who hit home runs.

While his presentation, and others to follow, were interesting, they were definitely difficult to follow. Most of the speakers seemed to suffer from “swallow the microphone” syndrome: where you hold the microphone so close to your mouth, nothing amplifies correctly and you invariably sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Coupled with the fact that all PowerPoint slides were presented with 12 pt. font, it was impossible to follow along at times.

All that aside, I did take a couple of fact-nuggets from Vincent’s presentation on Pitchers who hit home runs:

- Since 1876, 1,214 pitchers have hit 3,790 home runs in the major leagues.
- 71 pitchers hit at least 10
- Wes Ferrell has the most career home runs for a pitcher with 37
- Of active pitchers, Carlos Zambrano has the most home runs with 23

Former Chapter President Bob Savitt did a presentation about his new book, The Blue Ridge League, Images of Baseball. Savitt’s presentation showed photographs, rosters, and documentation from the Blue Ridge League, which played between 1915 and 1930. Savitt conducted his research on the subject by traveling and speaking to residents. Savitt pieced together his book through newspaper articles and historical documents. His presentation on the league was fascinating, and if the 30-minute presentation is any indication, it is probably a book worth reading.

During the first break, I sat at our table thumbing through my pages of David’s 1992 Baseball Records Book and refilling my water glass. As soon as David left our table for a moment, I was met with several eager conversation starters from the gentlemen. One man came over and told me that he assumed it was my first meeting because he would have remembered someone that beautiful. Another man asked in rather accusatory fashion what exactly I was doing at their meeting. Another just kindly introduced him and welcomed me to the meeting.

After the break, former Washington Senators pitcher Jim Hannan regaled the group with his stories of his time in baseball and the work he has done on behalf of the Player’s Alumni Association. Hannan’s demeanor was exactly what you would expect of a man raised in New Jersey, who spent his livelihood playing baseball and working as a trader in the off-season—he was gruff, yet endearing.

Hannan told stories of his time in college at the University of Notre Dame playing with Carl Yastrzemski, his time playing for Ted Williams, and his career against the toughest batter he had ever faced: Micky Mantle. Hannan’s stories reminded me that baseball—and pitchers—were different when he played. And since the salaries of players in his era were nothing comparable to what the league boasts today, Hannan has dedicated the last several years of his life working for better pension plans for the alumni association.

Hannan’s stories resonated with the room of baseball fans on many levels, but mostly the crowd seemed receptive because Hannan is a relic of the sport that brought this room together. And even though his presentation had no mention of statistics (there was plenty of that during Dave Smith from Retrosheet’s presentation later in the day), Hannan’s time on the stage was the most enjoyable.

Perhaps the thing to understand about this particular SABR Day meeting is that members of the Bob Davids Chapter are unique in their chapter size and camaraderie. This fact was cemented by a presentation by David Vincent that honored the late Bob Davids, who died 10 years ago. This presentation included photographs taken at the memorial service for Davids, as he was laid to rest in Arlington National Cemetery.

The photos that followed were of men, shades younger than their current selves, wearing suits and ties with baseball designs laughing and remember their good friend in the company of those who knew him best—his family and his SABR family.

While there was some initial awkwardness of feeling like an outsider and funeral voyeur, it was evident this group of men not only get together annually to discuss baseball, but a group with deep friendships that blossomed out of their love of baseball, but were maintained for reasons well beyond their interest in the sport.
There was a sense that these men have been seeing games together for longer than I’ve been alive. They meet monthly at a diner to discuss presumably not only baseball, but their lives in general. And the auction prizes were books and artifacts from Bob Davids’ estate—mementos not only of baseball, but of their dear friend.

As an onlooker, I wouldn’t say that I was necessarily accepted into the group. In fact, I know my presence was scoffed at by a few members, puzzled how their group could generate the interest of a late-20s female. But the warmth and kindness of others was undeniable. Some said hello and smiled in the hallways, with a knowing look—that look we all have when we recognize someone is as obsessed and impassioned by our hobbies as ourselves.

And while David and I shared a laugh at All the Bud Seligs’ expense over bourbon later in the afternoon, the experience of my first SABR Day was pretty wonderful. I’d do it again, if the Seligs will have me.

I had been in DC for less than three weeks, still sleeping on a sofa at my sister’s place while I impatiently awaited her grad school friend to vacate the spare bedroom, which would become mine until I could find a permanent living situation. The thought of finding a place to stay permanently was daunting—the market in DC is competitive and the prospect of settling in a city that I was unsure about slowed the process even more.

My sister’s leather sectional is honestly one of my favorite places to sleep; it has been since they purchased it six years ago. Even when there is a spare bed available, I usually opt to cuddle up in the fetal position in the L shaped cushions; cold leather is comfort against my feet which always poke out from underneath the fuzzy throw—a curse of being so tall.

That morning started with the prospect of Chicken and Waffles.

In an attempt to make DC feel more like home, I had been promised brunch. In Chicago, brunch was commonplace. Our self-proclaimed brunch club would try a different restaurant every Sunday. The super group of close friends would catch up on that week’s news: what happened at work, with our families, and in our love lives, while we drank bottomless bloody marys. The brunch club was just tradition, and even though the cast of characters was revolving, it was assured that at least two people would go to brunch every Sunday.

It’s just what we did.

But in DC, I had not brunched yet. In fact, crawling off of the sofa and showering seemed impossible that morning. I knew I would be meeting some friends from Chicago for beers later that afternoon, so I tried to make myself look presentable, which meant a cashmere sweater that wore like an old boyfriend’s sweatshirt, while maintaining a flattering shape. With my hair in a ponytail and too much eyeliner, I looked in the mirror and thought, “Well, that’s good enough.”

That’s how I always feel when I look in the mirror. I never look in there and feel beautiful; I certainly never see my reflection and feel sexy or desirable. Most days it feel as though whatever outfit I have put together does a good enough job of hiding my flaws, while the makeup I wear does a good enough job of covering the scars I have on my face from surgery in my early 20s for suspicious cancer spots.

And as my sister and I walked to the train, feeling just good enough and starving, I felt my phone vibrate. I assumed it was my friend from Chicago firming up plans for our afternoon of wing-eating, football-watching, and Chicago-lamenting, but the text was from the newest number in its memory.

I would be lying if I said I have never used Twitter as a dating service.

To be fair, I have never set out with the sole purpose of dating those I connect with daily, but sometimes it happens. The night before, I had received a message from a guy locally, who had responded to a question I posed… “Where can I go in DC that doesn’t involve talking about politics?”

We had never communicated before, but I recognized him immediately when he responded, as being someone I had recently followed for Washington Capitals news. He was a writer.

His response, which was succinct, yet flirtatious was “Anywhere I am.”

And what started as a flirtatious comment turned into an evening of Direct Messages, me from the sectional sofa with the cold leather cushions; him from the press box at the Verizon Center.

We talked about life, but mostly about hockey. He plead the case of Dennis Wideman’s defensive abilities, I compared him to Nick Boynton.

And when the game was over, neither of us wanted the conversation to end. I gave him my number and he texted on his train ride home. We discussed the vibe of the locker room, as the Capitals dealt with a losing streak. If I remember correctly, he said it was comforting to know that we could talk. And I took that as a good sign.

I sat on the train clutching my phone, headed for chicken and waffles, as we texted about Sundays. I posed the question as to his favorite Sunday plans and I told him about mine: waking early for coffee and a crossword puzzle, brunch with friends, and an afternoon of relaxation and sports.

As our interest in getting to know each other escalated, we couldn’t text fast enough. It was a whirlwind of incoming and outgoing messages, so many that sometimes he would send two before I could respond to the first, jumbling our conversations in a positive confusion.

And after the chicken and waffles, I went to a bar in Chinatown with my sister to meet our visiting Chicagoans for drinks and football. And as I balanced conversation with those around me at the table, I continued the texting. With the encouragement of a Makers and Ginger, I invited him to join us.

It seemed like a strange thing to do: invite the guy that I had known (electronically, of course) for less than 24 hours to have a drink while I was a) with family b) hosting out of town guests and c) wearing the cashmere sweater I chose for comfort over sex appeal. But within the hour, he arrived.

I am always concerned when I meet someone for the first time, especially from the Internet. Sometimes our personas of online life do not translate to good conversation over cocktails. In fact, and I am not ashamed to admit it, some of you (not me) are incredibly awkward and off-putting in person.

Fortunately, he was not.

He arrived in the midst of our conversation about hipsters, which led to showing him pictures of Hipster Dinosaurs on my iPhone. While no one else at the table showed an interest, I leaned in to show him dinosaurs that were cut out of a children’s coloring book, poorly drawn with added glasses and ironic mustaches with very insightful speech bubbles that said things like, “What do you mean Polaroid is discontinuing instant film?” and “Elliot Smith was a GEEENIUS.”

He laughed at dinosaurs, scrolling intently on the iPhone. Knowing him better now, I am sure he was fixated on the screen to fight off some nervousness, but in the moment it felt as though there was just me and him and dinosaurs wearing glasses.

It felt nice.

The afternoon continued and the bourbon flowed as we all got to know each other. His football team, the New Orleans Saints, beat the Falcons in overtime. In one of my bro-est moments, we high-fived…which was the first time our hands touched.

The ice breaker high-five parlayed into his hand planted on the inside of my thigh for the duration of the 4:00pm games. It felt comfortable and surprising—things never went this well.

Every time I excused myself, my Chicagoans grilled him with questions about his intentions with me. He had positive and well-rehearsed answers. Perhaps he had done this before, or perhaps he found them terrifying. It’s difficult to tell.

And every time he left the table, it was grins and gushing about a boy that seemingly came out of nowhere less than 24 hours earlier and had spent the last four hours whispering things into my ear, rubbing my thigh, and scooting his chair closer with every excuse imaginable.

When it was time for my Chicagoans to leave for sushi, I assumed the afternoon was over. That I would head back to the sectional sofa, watch the evening football games, and think back on a fun afternoon. So when he asked if I would take a walk with him, I had to contain my excitement.

Saying goodbye to friends is never easy, especially with the adjustment issues I was dealing with in DC. As we stood underneath the well-lit black awning on a busy street in Chinatown, he told my friends that he enjoyed meeting them. As good friends tend to do upon saying goodbye, we lingered, continuing the conversation as people walked down the sidewalk, focused on their destinations. And when the final final goodbyes came, he shook my friend’s hands and said something unexpected: “I hope to see you again sometime.”

I hope to see you again sometime?

Who was this guy that just shows up at the bar, is eloquent, wonderful, and affectionate…and assumes that he will have the opportunity to see my friends that live half way across the country again? It was innocent, but perhaps brazen, and it gave me a rush of security I’d never felt with someone before. Not that quickly, at least.

It was natural to assume that he would be around for awhile, that was just the impression everyone had.

And as we walked away, hand in hand down 7^th street, I smiled and gripped his hand tightly.

The purpose of our walk was two-fold: to get to know one another and for me to get acquainted with DC.

We walked to the Verizon Center and talked about Capitals hockey. I asked a lot of questions about the team that he covered for a living, partly to learn more about the team I’d invariably be supporting as the local option, and partly to hear the passion and excitement in his voice as he talked about the one thing he knew he loved.

As we entered Penn Quarter, we stopped at a statue of someone important riding a horse. We paused and he told me that you could tell how someone died based on how the horse they rode was posed. And as he educated me on horse postures, I took his hands in mine and tucked our intertwined fingers into my coat pockets, our bodies snuggled close, with dignitary and horse above us.

Our faces were just inches apart, the fall air getting colder, and him without a jacket. We stood silently, perhaps awkwardly, as our glasses fogged from the others’ breath, completely alone on this street corner in our huddled embrace.

He kissed me, which I’d waited for patiently, and we continued our walk to the National Mall.

He wanted to show me the museums and monuments at night, which he said was one of his favorite things about the city. I remarked that I had noticed how beautiful the Washington Monument looked at night, though when close enough to see the two flashing lights on top it resembled a klan mask: my southern upbringing at its finest.

We strolled by the Smithsonian he told me what each building housed. When he was unsure what a building was, we would stop and read the placards placed along the sidewalk. A man willing to admit he did not know everything? Novel.

Our conversation drifted seamlessly between our lives, our families, hockey. He promised he would take me ice skating, even though he was a terrible skater; I promised to hold his hand.

He quizzed me on the numbers of Chicago Blackhawks players, and was impressed by how well I did. I told him my mission was to learn the Washingon Capitals numbers as instinctively as I knew my beloved Chicagoans, and we compromised on a challenge:

He would tell me a new players’ number everyday. For every number that I remembered, I would earn a kiss. It seemed like a fair competition for a girl that enjoyed useless hockey knowledge and the affection of men, especially simultaneously.

The walk between the Washington Monument and the World War II memorial took longer than expected, as he made good on his promise to kiss me for every number I got correct.

Troy Brouwer? (20) Alex Ovechkin? (8) Mike Knuble? (22) Dennis Wideman? (6)

We stood, largely alone at the World War II memorial, among the pillars that represented every state. We talked about our families. He held me close as he told me about his sister’s battle with cancer, and he swept the bangs out of my eyes while I told him about my parent’s struggles as well.

It felt nice to be close, but it felt even better to be vulnerable. And when the closeness of telling someone I hardly knew my secrets scared me too much, I pulled away and wandered the path along the memorial, on a mission: to find all of the states we had lived in.

We stopped at each state, and I told him a light hearted story about all of the places I had lived. When we got the Illinois, I took an extra moment of pause and snapped a photo of the pillar that represented the Land of Lincoln. And in that moment, perhaps the only since my arrival, did I feel content to be in DC. I had found a reason to smile, and I wanted more of it.

We got lost on our way to the White House. Not because we were unsure where it was located, but because we were too wrapped up in the excitement of our company to pay attention to where we were headed.

It was a Sunday night before a holiday, and the streets were empty. He did something I have never had happen on a date before: he asked me out again…but in the middle of our date. It was nowhere near time to say goodnight, and we had already shored up plans to visit a bourbon bar on Friday. And when I told him I was excited that the Capitals played Winnipeg that week, he invited me over on Thursday to watch the game with him.

Lining up future dates, committing to see someone again, is usually something that I do not do. I am always hesitant to show my cards and admit that I would like to see someone again, but here I was, standing on the corner of Constitution and 17^th programming our dates into my calendar as we walked. And against my usual judgement, it felt right.

We walked miles that evening.

From Chinatown, to the monuments, to Dupont Circle for coffee and dessert. And while we walked, always touching in some fashion, we talked tirelessly. When it came time to take the train home, we snuggled in the tiny metro seat for the three stops we had in common. I nuzzled my cheek into his neck, and whined that I did not want him to leave the train. Mainly, I did not want him to leave me.

He asked the one question that is my benchmark for a chivalrous date: he asked me to text him when I arrived home safely. We kissed goodbye on a crowded train, with onlookers disgusted and jealous of the connection and our public display. As he left the train I could not help but smile…shrugging at the leers of on-lookers who witnessed our kiss.

And for awhile, we carried on this way.

We spent quiet evenings on the sofa watching hockey; we had nice dinners with deep conversations about our futures. We compared ambition as I rested my head on his bare chest before falling asleep, using him as my pillow, my springboard for ideas, and security blanket in one.

I slept better in his bed, in his arms, than I have ever slept anywhere.

And not surprisingly, he decided that he would rather spend his time being single and exploring what it meant to be independent. As someone who has been in his situation, the one of having someone standing in front of you, ready to be with you, I know how difficult it can be to catch your breath and remain composed. Sometimes the prospect of someone better coming along, or dating and fooling around until you find enlightenment seem like the only option.

So it ended. It had to.

And it’s been a month since I last fell asleep in his arms, but every time I see a monument at night, I think of him; and I think of us.

Every stroll through Penn Quarter reminds me of our first kiss.

I stop at every dignitary on a horse, trying to figure out how they died.

And sometimes there is sadness. And sometimes there is a smile and laughter, remembering the fun and happiness that he brought into a very joyless period of my life.

And as I cross the Potomac, Washington Monument in my rearview, I get closer to my home, which brings me closer to his home. I think I miss him more knowing that just a mile separates us, though emotions and reality keep us miles apart.

Tonight as I drove home from an evening in Maryland, I saw the monuments.

Instead of watching them in my mirror, I veered off of the highway and drove along the tidal basin, taking in the lights and letting the history of the city, and the history of us, sink in.

I remembered a promise I made to him while we were together. He read my blog regularly, and he had seen some of the stories of sadness, bad dating, and longing. He wanted to be a chapter in my life, not just a story in my blog, that recounted happiness.

He did not want our story to be one that happened once things fell apart; he wanted to be an exception to the rule that has been the last four years of my life.

I never got to tell this story before things ended between us, because the end was abrupt, unfortunate, and a blindside. We still talk, and though I have not asked if he is seeing someone else and enjoying single-dom, I trust that he has made the right decision.

I am sure he will read this; and I am sure he will smile when he thinks about the monuments, which I am positive he does already.

I suppose sometimes it’s just important to keep promises, which now I can say I have done.

I am not sure if I had an inexplicable desire to move across the country. I might have been running from something. 

This is not particularly unusual for me, as I’m turning 27 in three weeks and I have quite the track record—17 different cities, 25 different houses, in 10 different states.

The nomadic spirit is a blessing and a curse.

It made it easier to leave dead-end situations, knowing that as soon as I could settle somewhere else life could officially begin. However, in some cases the wanderlust can be damning.

I knew that moving to Chicago was likely only a temporary move. It was a multi-faceted and utlitarian. It was the opportunity I needed to finish my education, adding two more degrees to the shelf before turning 26. It was a chance to live in a big city, alone, which had always been the fantasy.

Chicago was a chance to not just make it, but thrive on my own after five years of being entirely too reliant on a man that I now realize never loved me even a quarter as much as I did him.

If I learned one lesson as a child, it was that education would bring freedom and fulfillment. When I finished high school, I was not convinced that I wanted to attend a traditional four-year university, because I wanted to be a chef. However, I chose the more traditional path through academia, because the mantra of my family was that education equaled success.

And for my parents, it did. My dad had degrees and he was the CEO of a company. And even though my mother quit college a semester before graduation to take care of two children and a sick husband, she found success in owning her own business.

And education was the path I wanted, after a privileged upbringing. Money can not buy happiness, but it can certainly make life easier. Half of the stress in my life comes from checking the mailbox and my credit report. Graduate school was the fast path to financial freedom indefinitely.

It would mean a brand new MINI Cooper, instead of the old one that has a dent in the side that I believe is more reminiscent of a beating with a Louisville Slugger than an accidental garage collision.

More education would mean a bigger apartment, instead of a shared space or a studio. Of course, my studio was ideal when alone, but hosting a dinner party in which everyone sat in tailgating chairs while awkwardly trying to cut their London Broil, plate in lap was less than ideal.

Still, I think everyone had fun… but that was probably the wine.

Not only would more education bring material happiness, it would mean a mental fulfillment I had always sought, but could not find. Not only would I feel more intelligent, I could quantify my intelligence when questioned.

The conversation goes something like this:

“Have you ever been to college?”

“Yes, I have four degrees, in fact.”

And then any line of questioning about my opinions, beliefs, or questions to Jeopardy-esque answers would end—I would be unquestionably intelligent; no need to actually prove it.

And in further naïve views, graduate school might lead to the man of my dreams.

Picture spending days in a research library, living within the annals of academia. The research library at my university overlooked Millennium Park. I could see the building’s reflection in the bean, the tourists on the sidewalk. I did some of my best thinking while staring at the sailboats on Lake Michigan while pondering demographic trends for assisted living facilities—part of my thesis.

And also in this library? Large leather sofas that begged to be shared with ambitious bearded, hipster-glass wearing classmates. And in this library, you’d meet the man that you could not live without. When people ask how you’d met, you would mention your alma mater, then you’d explain how your paths had once crossed in an advanced statistical analysis class. He kept asking for your help with regressions, which would lead to late-night study sessions that were probably 10% studying, 30% alcohol, and 60% sex.

And you would share a condo in Lakeview, you would run on the lake front trail every Sunday morning with your dog, and you would spend summer afternoons at the ballpark to escape from the stressors of being successful and important in corporate America.

But, three years later, only some of those dreams came true. And when an offer for a job came in Washington, DC it seemed that I had no choice but to move.

I have always operated under the premise that I could live many places with just a few constraints.

• Must be a major city with public transportation to commute to work
• Must be able to keep my car for errand-running and road-trips
• Must have a Major League Baseball team
• Must have a hockey team (AHL acceptable)

Since I had laid out such loose criteria, logic said I had to accept the job in Washington, DC. Plus, in this economy the dream job—of feasibility and design analysis for a commercial development firm—did not exist. So when opportunity knocked, any opportunity at all, I had to jump. Were it not for all of writing I get to do, and the lives that I touch daily, I would probably just sleep under my desk and surf the internet all day.

My biggest issue with Washington DC has little to do with the city itself, and more to do with me. The move has been a reminder of all of the failures and unfulfilled goals on the “Where Will I be in 5 years?” list.

I do not have a new car, and the MINI Cooper has an undiagnosed broken piece that is related to steering, which is now making it impossible to parallel park. I would take it to the shop for a diagnosis, but that phone call telling me that the repairs are more than three months’ rent are just a reminder of the financial stress I feel since I haven’t landed the dream job I was promised (albeit the promise was self-made).

And in case you’re wondering, falling in love in graduate school did not happen. There was never a tryst with a soon-to-be tycoon. There was never coffee with the next entrepreneur who will create something that revolutionizes the way we live. The only companions I brought to Washington, DC were my dog—that was purchased for protection and company—and a collection of books and baseball cards that work surprisingly well at filling plan less evenings that would be better spent waxing romantically with a real companion. But, these supplements are important none the less.

And since 2009-2011 did not go as they were intended, I have no choice but to adjust accordingly and continue with caution and differing (lowered?) expectations.

I am finding that life is not going to provide contentment for me from the traditional path of education and hard work. Not at this point, at least. For now, it is time to get creative.

So 2012 begins with more writing.

It begins with a focus on this site, a novel, and finally—more baseball writing.

And perhaps the disappointments of post-graduate and unassured security melt away.

I have been confused and reflective of my discontent with Washington, DC since October. It has been largely lonely, especially since my most-recent breakup. It has been unfulfilling professionally, especially because my responsibilities are limited to whatever menial tasks my boss is willing to delegate that day.

But, I am sitting at a coffee shop with an Americano and a fully-charged laptop. And as climate change makes it acceptable to sit outside in early January I find myself smiling, realizing there is nothing else I would rather do at this moment than write, drink coffee…and smile.

So for now, writing it is.