More Perfect Days

Robyn and I have had a string of what we call “perfect days” lately—simple but deeply satisfying. Days that just feel good by the time they end. They’re rarely grand or lavish, just perfect.

And we’ve had a few of them lately, perfect in their own way, despite the chaos of the past few months.

Yesterday, for example, we had a bunch of kids’ soccer games, a BBQ with Bo’s team and all the families at our house, and then an impromptu visit from two of our siblings.

Last weekend was a lovely mix of yard work, a trip to Eastern Market, planting transplants, an impromptu play date at the park with close family friends, and a round of tennis.

And all of this is happening amidst the grind we’re in—Robyn managing a slew of doctor’s appointments for our newborn Griffin, and me in an intense work season that’ll stretch through at least August.

This string of “perfect” days within our uniquely hectic season nudged me to reflect: what are some other “perfect days” I remember?

There was the day we all went to Eastern Market and then had a charcuterie dinner on the Detroit Riverwalk.

Or the day we were engaged—with a visit to the Motown Museum, a nice meal where two of my brothers serenaded us tableside, and then our whole family meeting us at the place we met for a drink to end the night.

Or the day we played soccer in the garden at my family’s house in India, when Robyn’s whole family and a huge percentage of my extended family were under the same roof for a few days.

Or the day we met our longtime family friends, the Chins, at the splash pad to end a long weekend with a picnic dinner.

And then there are the times camping in National Parks, where every day feels like a perfect day—and our makeshift meals taste better than anything we could’ve made in a full kitchen at home.

I started reminiscing, but then a pattern emerged.

My perfect days tend to be outdoors. They’re always with family and friends. They include good music, good food, and movement. They’re patiently paced, with space for impromptu adventures.

My perfect days have a formula, really:

• Get outside

• Move around

• Be with people you care about

• Eat, drink, and be merry

• Don’t rush

I realized this isn’t complicated—it’s attainable. Even every weekend. And what’s oddly reassuring is that these perfect days tend to emerge—I rarely see them coming.

***

This week I called my uncle—as I do every week. He’s really more of a father to me. My younger sister happened to be there—she was in Delhi, about to fly to visit our older sister in Australia. We spoke briefly, and something in her voice I hadn’t noticed before, struck me.

For the first time, I realized—her voice had grown. I could hear how life had worn it in, softened its edges. She’s not old, but she is older. We are older.

And it took me back to how I remember her when we were kids, all hanging out at my grandparents’ house in India. The house with stone floors and a roof that sounded like a drumline when the monsoon rains poured.

Where we would sing, dance, and occasionally play cricket in the hallway. Where we would all eat from one steel plate on the floor at dinner and then talk late into the night about our fears, dreams, and the life we had lived since we were last together.

I still weep when I think about the joys of visiting my grandparents’ house, with my aunts, uncles, and brothers and sisters. Those days are long gone. We’re not old now, but we’re older.

I see that aging in the mirror after every haircut Robyn gives me, because the balance between salt and pepper shifts just a little every time.

I’ve found myself mourning the passage of time as my next birthday draws near. At 38, I’m now squarely in that grey zone—not sure if I’m closer to the beginning or the end of my life.

And it scares me. I want to go back. To those perfect days I know are real, because they’ve already happened.

But then it hit me.

“I’ve had perfect days.”

And I’ve had lots of them, at every phase of my life. Most of us—even if we’ve had hard times, or been short on money—have had perfect days.

Which means: at every age, I’ve had perfect days ahead of me that I didn’t see coming.

And now, I’m old enough to see the pattern to unlock perfect days: nature, love, food, drink, music, and slowness.

This has been the key to accepting the age I’m about to hit: I have perfect days ahead of me. We have perfect days ahead of us.

The older I get, the more perfect days I will have. The older I get, the more I will understand the rhythm of them. The older I get, the better I get at making them happen.

The key question here, which I’m now old enough to have the wisdom to ask, is: what do my perfect days have in common?

If we can answer that—quietly, honestly—it might be the key to not dreading the inevitability of aging. If I can get that question right, I may even look forward to getting older.

Because age hasn’t just brought me perspective. It’s brought me patterns. And now, I can see them. I can feel when I’m in the middle of a day I’ll want to remember because it’s perfect.

Perhaps that’s one way to translate what growing older really is—learning to notice, in real time, the days we’ll call perfect.