I want to watch the final scene of Freaky Friday when everyone’s jamming at Jamie Lee Curtis’ wedding.
I want to watch that scene from the green leather couch in our old living room, which has since been converted to my grandma’s room and is now a guest bedroom.
I want to watch with a damp towel beneath me after having spent a summer Wednesday-beach-day at 56th Street in Newport Beach and hopping in the jacuzzi after.
I want to have soccer camp and coming of age novels and the mystery of romance on my mind; I want a now-watery slurpie from 7–11 on my lips and sore muscles from swimming and the full-body relaxation that a day in the sun gives you.
I want to smell my dad making pasta sauce with sausage and hear my mom watering the plants.
It’s not even about wanting to be void of mental illness or have a different president or be blissfully ignorant of how people treat me differently as a woman. I just yearn for that collective moment like one longs for a nap at 3:00 in the afternoon.
I don’t even remember the name of Lindsay Lohan’s character.
