A Perfect Day
Jul 22, 2026
Essay
I remind myself that I only need to make it to 40 minutes. I begin the jog at Porte de Clichy, passing Tram B up to Clichy Blvd., landing right at the Statue du Maréchal Moncey. I turn right, shuffling in-between the onslaught of tourists bursting out from metro line 13. I jut out of the crowd, keeping pace with my reflection along the store windows, my feet possessing their own rhythm. A milieu of runners pass each other — a man and woman in particular cross in front of me, diverting my attention to a street enveloped by trees. Curiosity reroutes my direction; I trail the runners beneath the shade of the trees. Bikes ding by. People barter at the brocante. Eventually, I veer off from the runners at Rue Legendre, running towards to Levallois.
I glanc at my watch, checking the time, near the 40-minute mark. Suddenly I recall an IG story of a woman I follow post her hour run. I wonder could I do an hour? How could anyone run for an hour? Still I wondered if I could. I said, Okay, let's go for 50 minutes, Monica. The 50-minute mark arrives. Excitement boosts my stamina. I keep moving. I see the bridge at Rue Cardinet. I tell myself, make it to the front of the shopping center, Monica. Eleven minutes pass as I run under the commercial buildings at Rue Cardinet. The time on my watch slides to the 1 hour and 1 minute mark. I am astonished.
When was the last time I astonished myself? Am I capable of this? I call Jude.
Où es-tu? I burst into the phone. I wait for him to arrive for our set coffee date and stroll. When he arrives, I rush to him, showing the running time on my watch. He smiles
Comment tu sens? He inquires. I respond, Fucking fantastic, with my lips indenting the corners of my cheeks. We began our stroll.
My enthusiasm contributes to my rambling, jumping subjects like a child who parents arrive for just picked up, excited to tell details of their day. We pass our usual coffee shops in the 17ème. Today I crave something new.
We arrive at Olysse, a new coffee shop with sleek brown and chrome chairs, lush green color accents, and a glossy tiled bathroom. We sit, check the menu, and order a detox smoothie and an iced latte, a recent addition to a French menu. An additional 0.75 euro ice charge later. We sit sipping our respective drinks, eavesdropping on an Italian family sitting next to us. Jude explains that they are complaining about the decor of the coffee shop. I was pleased. Maybe Italian taste is superior to an American's? I picked up my phone, take a picture, then leave to pay at the counter.
We continue our walk through the 17eme arrondissement, the wind drying the last trickle of sweat from my body. I remember there is a boucherie that has recently opened. We stop in. I select a steak haché, poitrine fumée, and rillettes de poulet avec yogurt. Stepping outside, we pass a floral shop. I decid to welcome the finality of May with flowers. Flowers in hand, fresh meat in our tote, the final stop is a celebratory pain au suisse from Tranche.
Finally, we drift home. Feeling the best I had in weeks, I treat myself to a day of care. I shower—scrubbing with the Shea Moisture that has traveled from my mom's checked-in bag a few weeks ago.
The ritual follows with Palmer's coconut oil and finishes with a crème body wash. I rinse the suds from my skin. Now, moving my attention to my hair. I drench the curls under the shower head. Lather the rosemary shampoo then condition throughout my hair. Cleansed, I stop the water. Step out the shower, dry my skin and hair. I moisturize my body first with lotion followed with shea butter. I oil the ringlets of my hair, then pressed those curls into a straight line.
Once my silk press is done, I scrub my feet, watching the dead skin flake away. The feet that carried me 7.65km. I oil, moisturize, and slip thick socks on to lock in the work of my new feet. Lastly, I put on a clay mask, cleanse my face, then rinse it with the thick formula of Welda.
During this process I realize I had been made new. I cook the steak haché, make a Greek salad, and steamed rice. Nothing prepares a body and spirit for a restful night like a day well spent. Today was a perfect day.
