A few weeks ago I was standing outside of Grumpy’s with Waldorf and Tom Petty talking about writing and class and who knows what else. I was quizzing Tom Petty about the poetry classes at The Loft. He’s a veteran of Loft poetry.

I confessed some of my fears about poetry. Most of this revolved around not wanting to hear poems about 40somethings getting over their divorces or grandmas writing about bluebirds.

Mostly I’m really afraid of poetry. I can appreciate it, I think. I’m just not sure. But that’s what writing’s all about, right? Going beyond what you are comfortable with. I think the poetry will really help my writing and help me push beyond the ‘typical Jodi story.’

Anyway, Tom Petty helped allay some of my fears (until he mentioned that you have to read your stuff in class every week which I can’t think about lest my stomach fill with acid). At one point Waldorf piped up with, “Yeah, I don’t have enough of angst to take a poetry class.”

My mouth fell open and I couldn’t say anything.

“I guess I’m just too happy and self-satisfied,” he said.

I wasn’t sure if I should shake his hand or punch him in the neck. I turned to Tom Petty instead. “I’m a single 30-something woman, I got enough angst for all of us.”

Today, however, I am Waldorf. I got no angst. For the first time in a week I feel healthy, well-rested, and satisfied. It’s been a glorious day filled with absolutely nothing. I grocery shopped, I read a book (Keven Brockmeier’s really fucking good A Brief History of the Dead), I practiced, I napped, I made a real dinner complete with a salad and vegetables.

Does life get any better?

As I was drifting in that weird state between being asleep and awake this afternoon I thought to myself, “so this is what Waldorf was talking about.” In that very moment I was so incredibly at peace I didn’t even know what to do besides go to sleep.

Which just proves my point that happy people are really fucking boring.