“I think I’m not very good at play – at being fun and whimsical,” I said.

“Well, if you want my unsolicited opinion on your life,” said my very close friend, “I think you are. Like the way you always have fresh flowers on your table, and the way you decorate your house, and the way you dress.”

“Hm,” I said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I just stopped noticing.”

So I decided to conduct an investigation. If I was whimsical, then evidence ought to exist.

I took notes.

• On the night of the full moon, I took a saltwater bath. I wrote down three things I’m done with and burned the paper in a steel bowl, which as a bonus made my husband think I was burning down his house. 

• On mornings when I have extra time, I practice braiding my daughter’s hair in new ways, in memory of my childhood self who would have loved to have dolls with hair to comb.

• I bought edible glitter to put in my beverages whenever I’m in the mood to feel like I’m drinking magical potions. (Note: I experienced but, importantly, resisted the urge to find a “healthy” version. Optimizing would have ruined the point.)

• Anytime something ordinary in my house (example: a plain clear glass soap dispenser with a silver top) breaks, I replace it with something much more interesting (example: a squat red cut-glass soap dispenser with a black vintage-style top). 

• Whenever I start feeling too normal, I put on my black lipstick and round rimless eyeglasses with purple lenses. 

• I stayed up til midnight reading dystopian YA fiction and eating dark chocolate truffles in a way that would have made my teenage self feel like we’re still the same person.

• I bought the most over-the-top gilt-accented vintage coffee cup I could find in an antique mall. It’s pink and green and gold and white and has “In Remembrance” written in German on it, and I couldn’t ask for anything better.

• I read books, books, books – about faeries and how stories we pass down create reality, about angels and demons and what it means to be human, about propaganda and how the stories we tell shape our world, about what human nature is at its core and how that affects the laws we need. (Note: an outside observer would think I only read fun fiction books this month. They would be correct. Fortunately or unfortunately, it always is that deep with me.)

• On the afternoon of the new moon, I planted flower seeds in the corner of my backyard with the enthusiastic help of my three-year-old daughter. We watered them daily until an actual miracle occurred in the form of tiny twin-leafed green sprouts. 

• When my husband bought me a bottle of red wine with a blue-haired girl on the label, I drank it with him. Then I put a series of white taper candles in it and burned them until wax dripped down the side of the bottle in pleasing patterns. 

• On a piece of heavy cotton paper, I wrote a letter to my future self with a black-and-gold quill pen. I sealed it in a dark green envelope with gold wax and put it in my drawer, and then I set a reminder on my phone because I don’t trust my human memory. 

• I bought my husband a dozen red roses and put them in a black vase in front of a gold-framed mirror. As the month passed, I watched them darken and die slowly, and tried to decide if they were prettier in their velvet or paper form. 

The evidence, in fact, does exist.

I’m whimsical af.