In the mornings, I let myself linger underneath the covers, twisting the full, fluffy comforter up and around my face, letting my feet dance in the cotton. It feels so good, to slide your soles through the cool material—almost sinful.
When I shower, I surrender to the warmth of the water, letting it caress my skin from my shoulders to the top of my ass, and really feeling what that feels like, to be nude—and alive.
When I sip my coffee, I pay attention to the way it feels in the back of my throat, the heat that soothes my insides and slips naughtily into my stomach.
When I pick up a pen, I marvel at the inky loops, considering how sensual they are, and how grateful I am to have made them.
And when I write this blog, I play La Vie En Rose, and I sway my shoulders, and I think of what a privilege it is, to write; to take our ideas and give them the shape of a fierce ballerina.
These are what I call my petite little thrills. Everyone needs them. Or else, what’s life beyond a never-ending stream of marching orders?
Being alive is a grand sensual endeavor.
Every day is a spa day, if you know where to look.
*It aint’ all La Vie en Rose. Sometimes this song wakes the neighbors. Don’t tell them I told you.