Every so often, life hands me a perfect moment.
Yesterday evening, after Grr had finished inhaling his dinner as if he had never been fed in his life, he grabbed his chewtoy and hoisted himself up on the couch. With his belly full, he gave his toy a couple of half-hearted gnaws before putting his head on the armrest, surrendering to sleepiness. I had just finished dinner as well, and while Sam was cleaning the last of the dishes, I, too, hoisted myself up on the couch. With my belly full, I gave Grr a couple of half-hearted pats on the leg before putting my head on the opposite armrest and surrendering to sleepiness.
It had been a beautiful day, an even more beautiful evening, one of those rare and fogless San Francisco evenings. It smelled like summer, swirling with heat and moisture and smoldering charcoal. After work, Sam and I drove Grr to two new dog parks, figuring it was good to expose him to new places. Sam's verdict for Park #1: too many lesbian soccer moms who paid us no attention; Park #2: no fun dogs who paid Grr any attention. I don't think Grr minded either way as he is currently wading through an antisocial phase when it comes to other pups.
But after a late afternoon of smelling grass and eating dirt, Grr was now twitching and kicking in his sleep. I was just about to nod off as well when Sam walked by with a fresh cocktail, sat in a chair across from the couch, and kicked his feet up, prodding me with them in the ribs until I started rubbing them.
The noise of traffic outside our window was constant and white, though I could still hear the faint music playing from my iPod across the room. It was doing its best to embarrass me: Paula Abdul's "Rush Rush," Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl," and Lindsay Lohan's "Rumors" played in succession. Thank God Sam had his cocktail. It kept him quiet and occupied, oblivious to the music.
Right when I was ready to get up and actually find a song I wanted to hear, "Rumors" ended, and the piano remix of the early 2000s dance reboot of the mid-80s Bryan Adams' rock ballad, "Heaven," came on.
And then it was perfect.
Everything in life should come with a soundtrack. Even with cheesy lyrics, music shades everything with more meaning, lends more weight. Sam was staring off into space, no doubt pondering something about cars, something about home improvement, something about something else completely unrelated, and Grr was sound asleep. With the song punctuating the relative quiet, I was able to really take stock of what I have around me: a loving, albeit annoying, dog dreaming and flicking his paws to my right; and a loving, albeit oblivious, boyfriend blissfully nursing his drink to my left.
Oh, once in your life, you find someone who will turn your world around, pick you up when you're feeling down. . .
And right when I wondered how long this could last, Sam emptied his glass, got up and asked, "Are there any shows on?" as he walked over to the dishwasher. Grr, who recently discovered the pleasures of licking our used silverware, heard the dishwasher door open and found it impossible to resist. Seeing them both gone, I reached over the side of the couch and grabbed by iPad.
And just like that, it was over. I was out of perfection; it had lasted no more than a few seconds. The music soon went off, and the TV came on. I responded to some e-mails, suffered through yet another episode of Bones (is that show on every night?). Grr trotted around the room, his nails tapping out a jaunty little rhythm against the hardwood, his tags jingling along, while I thought, "Tomorrow, I will write about music, love, and something of perfection."
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