Last Day for Peaches

Per my Sunday ritual, I went to the farmer’s market today. Not quite in the tax bracket to be able to afford fresh meat and produce, usually I settle for a coffee and a stroll, and do the remainder of my shopping at Pavillions (or Trader Joe’s when it’s my rent check pay period).

I think I’m experiencing aftershocks of frontal lobe development.

I would ordinarily wear activewear, ensuring my sweet sweat waist trimmer was shedding at least three inches every morning, but today I put on an expensive (for me) linen top and jeans in 73 degree weather. At the Beverly Hills farmer’s market in actual clothes, I felt like an actual person. Capable of smiling and taking my ear buds out just in case anyone wanted to talk.

They never did, but just in case.

As I walked past the fruit tents, I was stopped by a sign Last Day for Peaches, it read followed by The Peach Lady in smaller sharpie. What do you mean last day for peaches? I had only started buying them last week (not my rent paycheck). Aren’t peaches like the fruit of the summer and surely summer couldn’t be already over. I’ve only been to the beach one time and I haven’t kissed anyone since February and my tan still matches my foundation shade.

Surely there must be some mistake, and time had not again gotten away from me.

But in fact, there had been no mistake at all and peach season in California only lasts until late July. I wince thinking about Autumn and Ugg boots — I’m thinking about throwing mine away because I saw an interview of Christopher Nolan talking about how much he hates them and I think he might be my hero, anyways, that is beside the point.

Don’t live a life so measured, you forget to be extraordinary.

Now that I’ve gotten a fruity pulse check on the passage of time, I am reinvigorated to live more boldly. Still committed to not drinking, but occasionally puffing a cigarette and coughing. Coughing after a hit of a cigarette is actually very feminine and chic and not at all something uncool that keeps me up at night.

I’ve never regretted yelling at someone who deserved it, but I’ve always regretted staying silent. Someone who really doesn’t give a fuck doesn’t give a fuck about giving people satisfaction or coming off “unbothered.” This thesis also applies to my philosophy on sex which is probably why I’m single.

Living more boldly doesn’t necessarily mean acting in damaging ways, it just means doing what you said you were going to do.

Having remembered that I wanted to bake a peach pie, I carefully pick up three peaches. Pretending to know what makes a good peach good. I think maybe even bad peaches are good, which is maybe why I’ve been gravitating toward them. Is now a really random time to bring up that my butt is getting bigger?

I check out, and as I exit the farmer’s market with my peaches and linen top, I realize that there is a time for everything. That next month, I will buy apples and enjoy them at their peak. That time is measured now by fruit cycles and not how many nights blurred together. That by next peach season my life would be even sweeter.

So wherever the Last Day for Peaches finds you, I encourage you to enjoy it.

XOXO BH