Q3 Forecast: The Pleasure Principle
It’s summer, my favorite season.
It’s Wednesday, my favorite day.
My alarm goes off at 7 AM, right between a brilliant idea and the first kiss of daylight. I know I’m onto something great.
I lace up my sneakers for a run. I press play on the ‘She’s Up’ playlist. The wind kisses my ponytail. The world feels alive, and so do I.
In Q3, I am forecasting pleasure. I’m on a strict pleasure diet.
Sensational and sexy, like summer fruit on skin, sweat on collarbones, the clink of ice in a glass. It’s full-sense living, this quarter feels like jazz at midnight.
In no particular order:
I applied to something wild and wonderful and got in.
Writing is back on the menu. Seductive, reflective, a little cheeky, just like me.
Summer gallivanting is in full swing (skirt, mini..shorts, short)
You could say I am tending to a garden, metaphorically. Excitement is essential to me because pleasure is a practice and presence is the only way in.
I’ve cleared my calendar for feeling, with no rush. In that moment is where I find the truest form of being.
There are versions of us, wild, insatiable, electric, that don’t crave more things. They crave sensation, movement and color, in hues we cannot see but instinctively know exist.
This part of me is always midair, flirting between thoughts and touch, logic and lust.
That’s the one with rabbit feet.
Soft, elusive. Hard to hold. Harder to forget.
And you?
You know this version of you exists, too.
The one who lingers a second too long, not because you meant to but because something told you to stay. The one who leads from instinct, not strategy, who doesn’t need to be certain to be bold.
You’ve met before, in a quiet moment, in the mirror, or in a glance that shook something loose. That part of you doesn’t want more. That part wants depth. It’s craving something richer.
To feel it all.
The beauty.
The ache that feels like fire in the chest.
There, it is where we are warm blooded.
There, we are alive.
As all living things do, we shift, we bloom, we move with the season. The garden is blossoming.
Beneath the spreadsheets and sunburns, there’s a sweet call. And if you’re quiet enough, you’ll feel it calling you back, to feel more, want more, be more.
In Q3, I’m letting that version lead, feet barely touching the ground, heart racing just ahead of your reach.
Catch me by my rabbit feet.
And if you do, you’ll glance down and smile, rabbit feet of your own.
The garden’s open.
The fruit hangs heavy, dripping, begging to be savored. The air clings to your skin, thick, sweet, intoxicating.
And the real pleasure?
Well, this is where we are, you and I.
Shall we taste the fruit together?
