Today during my lunch break, I took a semi-aimless walk along the waterfront of the Boston Harbor. Near the World Trade Center, a long line of people waited to board the high-speed ferry to Provincetown. Most people had various assemblages of luggage. Most people wore bright, summery clothes. Most people looked content.
An insane thought flashed in my brain: I should go to P-town, too, right now, on this ferry! The stray impulse began to blossom into a fantasty, and then steamroll into a full-blown scheme: I have my wallet, phone, and sunglasses. I could call the office and say “something came up.” I could be in P-town in 90 minutes. I could walk to a hotel in the center of town. I could rent a bike. I could buy new clothes. I could go to a straight bar, order a dinner, and watch a drag queen sing Celine Dion songs while sipping port wine and eating beet fries.
For too long, my window of opportunity for spontaneity has been cracked open about an inch, just enough so that a meager flow of fresh air is discernible when one bends before it, but not wide enough to reduce the overall stuffiness of the room. Little impulses here and there, like “Let’s go out to eat tonight!” blurted at 7:30pm when last night’s leftovers loom in the refrigerator. Like an impulsive trip to the bookstore. Like a sudden spousal kiss while walking down the street. Nice things, whimsical things, but not truly spontaneous things…
Like jumping on the 1pm ferry to P-town. As the passengers boarded the ferry along the gangway, I imagined what would await me in P-town: the scenic bike trails, the laid-back populace, and idyllic lesbian hotel that I stayed at last summer. But I made no move to the ticket window, and soon abandoned my dockside vigil to return to my office. A funny thing happens when you grow up: Anything that could be considered truly spontaneous is also probably irresponsible, but only if you actually follow through with it. Spontaneous reveries are restorative, affirming, and free.
