Postcard From London: An Afternoon In Kensington

The way I decide what to do with my days is a combination of touristy stuff and life stuff, i.e. "I should go see ___ but I also need to buy milk." Today I decided to go to Kensington because they have a Whole Foods and I wanted some 'green' shampoo. I also thought I could walk around Kensington Palace and maybe see that exhibit about famous royal dresses. 

On a whim, or more truthfully because I got on the wrong train, I ended up in my old neighborhood and was shocked at how very little had changed: There was the KFC I never went to and the cafe where my mom insulted a waiter by asking if she was going to get mad cow disease from eating the ribeye. And, rather shockingly, there was the very same homeless man panhandling in the very same spot outside Barclay's. His hair was mostly grey now and his dog was different but hey, I had changed too. 

As I walked down the street, I realized that as much as I had always told myself (and other people) that I would return to London one day, there really had been no guarantee. Yet, here I was, seven years older and twenty pounds heavier, walking down the very same street in the very same neighborhood I had lived in. What a gift, I thought to myself. How lucky that I was able to do this. It very easily could never have happened. 

I didn't make it to the Fashion Rules exhibit because I wasn't about to shell out 15 pounds to the monarchy. Pssh. They should pay for their own exhibit about themselves, I reasoned. Then I paid the equivalent of $12 for a bottle of shampoo, but at least it will last a while and actually do something.

Anyways, I returned home later to yet another rejection email from a literary journal and despite where I was and what I had just experienced, I felt like a total failure. After wallowing for a few minutes and tweeting about my wallowing to my 37 followers, I realized that the way I was defining success was making me miserable. I could literally be walking around my favorite city on a beautiful summer day, having an actual life experience--but not getting a story published in a journal that probably very few people read, other than those who have been published in it themselves, could ruin everything. I could see myself willing to trade this whole day or even this whole trip for a published story. And for what? What, exactly, would it do for my life? Could it really make me any happier or more satisfied than I am right now? I'm not sure anymore. I do know that I need to change my way of thinking--easier said than done, of course, but necessary.