I wake, often, in the middle of the night, unable to go back to sleep until it is morning and most people are on their way to work. I lie in bed and listen to the sounds of other peoples’ days unfolding outside my window, and I wonder how much sleep they get, how rested they feel when they climb out of bed each day. And I wait, too, for my body to fall back asleep, which it does, eventually. I awaken later—but not enough later that my body feels rested—to the sound of rain that sounds different today, less resonant, maybe, as it trickles through the gutters.

I wander into my day wearing my not-waterproof jacket, jeans and sneakers. Rain pours from the sky in random bursts and soaks through my jacket to the shirt underneath. I’m still wearing a t-shirt even though it’s the middle of October, but I’m wearing a long-sleeve shirt underneath for added warmth. My jeans are an inch too long so they slide along the ground at the heel of my sneakers and soak up water as I walk through puddles. I step through the door at the pub and my favorite waitress is standing there smiling, waiting for a hug. She reaches for me as I shake water off like a dog, a bit cartoon-ish, really, and she laughs, smiles wide, and reaches her arms inside my jacket to keep dry, wraps them all the way around my back and squeezes tight.

I slide into my seat at the bar, my hair dripping wet, my legs and arms cold from the wet clothes. Various people walk past, touch me lightly on the shoulder, smile and say hello. I come here a lot, usually when there are less people, but it is the weekend and it is pumpkin beer season so the bar fills quickly and this mildly annoys me. I don’t go to the pub to be social—though I do find the occasionally witty but usually juvenile conversations with my bartender rather entertaining—I go there because it is My time: away from work, away from home, away from friends, away from people who are close to me. I go there to drink beer, read books and magazines, write in my notebook, eat lunch, regroup.

People often ask what I do with my time off, and when the person sitting next to me asks, I tell him the same answer I give when people ask what I do: “Goof off!”

I like this life of mine. Love it, really. I have, I know, a very delightful life. I am rarely ever sad, rarely ever depressed, rarely ever unsatisfied with the choices I’ve made that led me here. I live, for the most part, very simply, and I typically stay away from people and things that don’t add value to my life.

When I look out the window, look out into the sky, I can see bursts of heavy rain, like a pulse letting me know the sky is alive with its irregular rhythm … with its arrhythmia—and I smile as I push myself out into the now-late afternoon and find my way home to goof off some more.