This could be your life

This could be your life

[Disclaimer: This is just a piece of fluff meant to inspire you. There is no guidance and no how-to in here.]

You have woken up without an alarm clock - for the 100th day in a row.

It is still early in the day, and yet you get out of bed without having to force yourself. You pull back the curtains, instantly getting greeted by south-eastern tropical sun and an amazing view of the ocean.

These days you have awoken to so many beautiful views, but they still have not lost their appeal to you. Briefly, you are toying with the idea of eventually acquiring your own place - but right now are perfectly content with staying at top tier hotels for a fraction of what your rent used to cost you in the soulless second-tier city you used to call home.

Since you are operating on several hours of a time difference, everyone in the old world is still asleep.

You throw on some gym clothes and you ride the elevator to the gym in the 9th floor. You are the only person here. You decide to blast some music while getting your reps in. Now, hotel gyms are rarely catering to an audience of avid iron enthusiasts, but you have learned to make do with what is available. You are no stranger to cranking out a hundred burpees and pushups, if all else fails.

To cool down and round off your workout, you head to the pool. Again, no one but you and the hotel staff is up and awake yet. By now they are used to the sight of you tearing throw the water like you are getting paid for it.

Eventually, you come back to your room. You get dressed and begin planning your day, zero-ing your inbox and picking up any leftover loose strands from the day before. The old world is still asleep, but the town below your balcony begins bustling to life.

Like clockwork, hunger begins to set in. You head downstairs and out onto the streets. Dressed in light cotton clothes, you feel a warm breeze caress your body - still pristine and unsullied by the smell of exhaust fumes, burning coal and tourist deodorant.

Speaking of tourists: By this time you can reliably tell them from the „regulars“. They seem like an alien species to you - their sweaty and confused gazes being so unlike the calm you carry both in your heart and on your face.

Even though the peddlers have learned to ignore you by now, you decide to duck into an alleyway, taking a shortcut trough the maze-like backstreets.

A cat is lazily resting in the shadow of wonkily assembled brick wall. There really is not telling the strays from the pets - the felines in this area really seem to belong to anyone and everyone. You scratch it behind the ear and continue on your way.

You eventually arrive at your destination. Even if you did not know this town like your back pocket, your nose would have reliably led you here.

Enveloped in a cloud of spices and aromas, your appetite reaches its peak. You order an assortment of produce and protein, paying a laughably low amount of money, all while making small talk with kind elderly owner of the the street food booth.

You‘d think that the conversation would somehow evolve, now that you have picked up some bits of the local language - but you have come to understand that most of it repeats. It is a ritual, a social lubricant, a medium to express mutual friendlines respect. It is mostly about the weather, your plans for the day or her trying to set you up with her daughter.

After some banter, you politely decline and continue on your way, eventually arriving at the beach.

You scan the surroundings through the tinted plastic of your sunglasses. Ironically, by now your method has grown eerily similar to those of the peddlers, who are trying to sell overpriced oranges to the inexperienced new-arrivals.

Eventually, you spot something - or rather: someone - of interest. Slim frame, brunette with just enough of an outline of trim muscles outlining under her pre-tanned skin. From the slightly tacky summer dress she just dropped on her towel, you‘d guess Russian or at the very least eastern European.

You walk up to in what has become your tried and tested routine. „Excuse me, could you watch my stuff while I go for swim?“ After a millisecond of bewilderment and another millisecond of sizing up your entire existence from a quick glance, she eventually nods. „Sure.“ You your „stuff“, a towel and a burner phone, into the sand. Then, with measured confidence, you proceed to take of your shirt, inch by inch revealing your chiseled body.

You almost could not tell because of her sun-glasses, but the slight wrinkles on her forehead and the surpressed upwards-motion of her eye-brows betray the double-take she just took. You shoot her a friendly smile and walk off towards the waves.

The water is perfect. Even better than the hotel pool. And with the pandemic still locking most of the world’s population at home to the sound of Netflix binges and their own neurosises, you don‘t even have to share.

You take a quick glance at your dive watch to judge the time and then proceed to exert yourself against the rising tide. You swim all the way to a bouncing yellow buoy and then make your way back - this time with the currents in your favor. As you arrive back on the beach, another glance at your watch proves satisfactory - you have improved your time again.

Like Daniel Craig you walk out of the shallow water, making your way back to your skinny soviet beach bunny. She has taken off both her sunglasses and her defensive attitude now - exchanging both for a much more pleasant demeanor.

Conversing with her is like riding a bike. You have done it countless time before, breezing through the usual topics like „What‘s your name?“, „Where are you from?“ and „How long are you staying“. You keep your answers intentionally vague, relying entirely on your friendly and relaxed attitude to carry the conversation. There is no need to impress her, or to force the interaction along. It just happens.

After about 20 minutes she gives you her phone number. 5 Minutes later you have set up a date for the evening.

Eventually, you excuse yourself and make your way back to the hotel. The mid-day sun starts burning excessively and your long for climate controlled surroundings.

You arrive back at your room, take a quick shower and then open your laptop. The old world has awoken. You join the daily stand-up or weekly kick-off or some other bullshit zoom call, looking into tired, sunken in faces of the corporate drones that now spend their third summer in lockdown.

You do you best to keep your background neutral so no-one knows where you are. Since you are a freelancer, no one can really tell you how to do your job anyway - but you are wise enough not to provide fuel for jealousy nor anger.

You get off the call and start working on your tasks for the day. Finishing them takes you about 3-4 hours. It never seizes to amaze your how fast you can now accomplish what used to take an eight hour workday. Instead of „playing work“ half of the day, nowadays you just sit down and power through all of it in one sitting.

You close your laptop just in time for dusk. You make your way down to the streets again an hop on your motorbike to take a ride and clear your head.

After brushing aside your thoughts about work, investments or your upcoming date, you eventually reach another, deeper thought has been your steady companion for those past few months.

It is warm and calm and rich with gratitude.

„Thank god, I decided to change my life.“