The last five Novembers.

Where were you five Novembers ago?

What about four? Three? Two?

Where were you last November?

I behoove you to recount it because before looking at my last five Novembers, I didn’t realize how rich of a life I get to live. Looking back made me really thankful.

Here’s where I was:

2018 - On a cross-country road trip with two of my closest friends.

We were making our way back from the East Coast on one of the most ridiculously mapped routes across the states.

Think zigzags. Think inefficient. Think absolutely perfect.

At this time, we were spending a few days in Arizona, and I fell further and further in love with the southwest all over again.

We had Acai bowls and coffee at Indian Gardens in the crevices of the Sedona landscape.

We edged our way around the Grand Canyon and were terrorized by crows.

We laid our eyes on Horseshoe Bend at sunset. Unraveling at its beauty, we almost got T-boned by a coyote chasing after a rabbit (lots of animal issues this stint of the trip).

After this November, I went on to live with one of those friends for the next four years. The other moved to New Zealand, then on to Cambodia, traveling all around the world in all the years in between.

I would go on a cross-country road trip with those two again in a heartbeat.

2019 - Taking care of my three nephews for a weekend.

I can’t remember everything we did, but I know Bagel Bites, movies, scavenger hunts in the backyard, and their endless attempts at explaining Minecraft to me were involved.

While it was a blur of burgers and ice cream and trampoline games, the one moment I treasure most from this weekend was early Sunday morning.

My youngest nephew Eli, who was five at the time, climbed into bed with me as I was sleeping and snuggled up.

I melted into my pillow and held him close knowing he was growing up. They were all growing up. I was growing up.

And time was moving so fast.

2020 - Harvesting raspberries from my garden.

The shared backyard of our tiny duplex was an emotional buoy in the ocean of pandemic stress for me at this time. As gushed over in a previous sappy post, this yard became my sanctuary.

I planted squash and cucumbers and sugar snap peas. I had kale and arugula, peppers, and carrots. Much of which I never tasted because Sacramento city rodents have a personal vendetta against me and me alone.

However, safe underground, I’d save harvesting carrots for when my nieces would come over to visit me because they loved unearthing them, spraying them with the hose, and chomping down. Even though I’ve since moved and it’s been years since they’ve eaten a homegrown carrot, my sister still tells me they ask about coming to my house to eat from auntie’s garden.

If you’d excuse me, I can’t see the screen through my tears.

In this garden, I was especially proud of my raspberry bush who started as a mere stem and some leaves and grew to be a giant. It had a spring harvest and a fall one and before the squirrels got to them, I’d walk out and inspect my raspberry bush every other day, eating ripe berries as I spotted them through the branches.

Consuming something sweet straight from the source is one of the most grounding, microscopic activities I am effortlessly enthralled by.

2021 - Having one of the worst shifts of my life.

My work-stress dream came to life in November 2021. I was working at a coffee shop at the time.

The scene:

A god-awfully busy Saturday morning. A team member had called out last minute, so we were down a person. I was the only one on the floor with training on how to work the espresso machine which was 90% of the job.

Line out the door.

Angry, impatient customers.

Trying to remember every order of this endless line.

Completing every drink from start to finish because I had no bar back to help.

Essentially on the floor alone.

Fending for my life.

And come to find later that day, a mishap with the tip distribution decreased the money I received for that nightmare of a morning.

Basically, a work-stress dream from beginning to end. I’d like to never relive, thank you.

2022 - At a magic show in Nashville.

My friend and I had gotten lost in conversation on the porch swing of our Airbnb when I got the email.

I’d made reservations for dinner at The House of Cards—an immersive dining experience of close-up magic and intrigue. I was so jazzed.

The email from the restaurant cautioned, in so many words, “If you don’t meet our dress code, we WILL turn you away.”

The dress code?

Black tie mandatory. Cocktail dresses. Formal. Out of our budget.

I looked to my friend and shared the devastating news. Neither of us had packed anything you could equate to formal attire and our reservation was in an hour and a half.

What were we to do?

Well, the answer was obvious to me.

GO TO TARGET. Find something resembling formal, keep the price tags on, and return it all the next day.

A middle class solution to a posh problem.

And that’s what we did.

If we’d been in a Disney Channel movie, we would’ve indulged in a fashion show montage where we’d burst from the changing room curtains in various crazy, rich-woman outfits until we settled on the best, a pop song playing in the background.

But we only had so much time.

Fashioning ourselves in clothes we had no business purchasing (and the finest Target had to offer), we changed in the public bathroom, sped our way to the underground restaurant, and strolled up to our reservation with a minute to spare. I wore a fabulous floor-length black trench coat that I wish I could’ve afforded to keep, and we tucked our price tags neatly inside our clothes.

The only hiccup…

The host insisted on taking my coat. Because of the easily exposed price tag and not wanting to appear like a fraud, I requested to keep it on. He leaned in and said, “I’m sorry miss, but the owner is here tonight and he REALLY hates outerwear in the dining room, so I’m going to have to take your coat.”

Nothing like getting bullied by a man in a bow-tie to make you compromise on your boundaries.

I surrendered. Brushing his hand against the price tag, he placed it on the hanger, looked me in the eyes, and to my relief, said nothing.

The dinner was superb.

The Old Fashioned was the best I’ve had to this day.

There was a full-on magic show that followed where my friend and I were picked as volunteers, and it was simply the best time these two broke Target Cinderella’s could’ve dreamt up.

Go back any chunk of years and you’ll begin to realize how colored of a life you live.

Where were you five Novembers ago?