Oh, thank heaven

Sometimes my walks home from the gym are buoyant, and the sun offers not only light but glitter, the breeze is as crisp as an apple slice, my hair, released from its ponytail, cascades with Brigitte Bardot glory, and rather than want to spit a hardware store of nails in the direction of every hideous, soulless 7-Eleven that has littered the city in the past few years, I regard the franchise as a charming reminder of 1970s suburban living and think, “I should get a Slurpee for my walk!” And then the needle scratches the record and I wise up.