I know, so corny. It was either that, or "Eye of the Tiger." These are the jokes, people. Don't forget to tip your waitress.
So we've been going to the farmer's market down the street from us since before we even moved into our house here. It's every Sunday morning and it has been one of the most enjoyable things about moving here. It doesn't get much better than strolling through a bunch of fresh vegetables and friendly neighbors, and the sound pleasant conversation set to the backdrop of either a blue grass or steel drum band (it alternates back and forth each week). It is a happy, hippy little haven in an otherwise too-busy-to-notice-you, image-driven town. Sure, I see my fair share of overtly fake boobs at the farmer's market, but the women sporting them seem to have taken a brief breather from how put together they look; sweat suits, no make up. Come to think of it, most of them are probably famous people I would recognize if they had the rest of their fakiness on (and that's actually not really fair because the handful of famous people I've met here have actually been surprisingly down to earth and kind-hearted).
This week it was Husband's turn to accompany Ethan on the choo-choo train. This is a high light of Ethan's week, although it is, admittedly, the lamest choo-choo ride ever in the history of choo-choo rides. The carnies who run it look as though they make the trip to Studio City every Sunday from somewhere in unchartered Appalachia territory. The choo-choo train's path takes it on several loop-de-loops through the scenic Big 5 parking lot and then back through the market. It never fails to astound me that Ethan doesn't just say one Sunday, "You know what? This choo-choo is wicked lame; let's skip it and get some coffee instead, mkay?"
But alas, he doesn't. So Husband and I take turns each week enduring the heebie-geebies inspired by the carnie folks and the exhaust fumes in the parking lot. And while one of us is feigning glee at finding ourselves once again on the least joyful of joy rides, the other one wanders through the market, gathering an assortment of juicy fruits and tasty veggies that we end up either eating at lightening speeds or throwing away three days later.
As it was my Sunday to wander, I made my way through the crowd, picking up some plums and some grapes. I couldn't help but get that corny, swelling "I'm so happy to be here right now in this moment" feeling. I've not really had that feeling since one of the last times I sat around the church nursery room in Virginia amongst my playgroup mom friends and all of our little ones. I didn't anticipate ever feeling that feeling...here.
It stopped me in my tracks, which probably annoyed the man pushing a double stroller right behind me. Oops. But I had to stop and bask in the feeling for just a moment. I mean, when you have a moment of nearly perfect contentment, it merits a few seconds of stillness, right?
The moment passed, and I went about my business, but it's altered my overall feelings about being here in LA. I am still heartsick about the friends, family and parts of my life that I left behind in Virginia. But I have found a place in my heart to put that, honor it and let it have it's place. The rest of me, the biggest chunk of my heart, is happy to be here. Maybe it's the Zoloft talking, but I'm content with that.
And seriously, who could be just a big gushy pile of happy with this face around? Ethan got his face painted at the Farmer's Market on Sunday after his big excited choo-choo ride.