What happens when someone says “Go to your happy place” and you don’t know what that is?

I no longer have that problem. I got it now.

Last night as I was falling asleep not only was I anxious as usual, but I heard myself saying that above the inner cacophony.

It was then that I figured it out, and it says something that I was able to remember it this morning.

My happy place is a Sunday morning sitting outside in the warmth, gazing over the Caribbean Sea while sipping an iced coffee out of a colored plastic floral pint glass as Jennifer reads a book on the lounge chair to my left and Rooney lies there under the chair eyeing the iguanas down below. I know that we’ll have to shower and get dressed for brunch with our friends in an hour and we’re both looking forward to this little weekly ritual of chuckles and cuisine. I breathe deeply and can taste the lingering flavor of Irish cream on my tongue before taking another swig of the drink, being careful so as not to chug it too fast and have an ice cube or three try to escape their fate.

That’s my happy place. At least for now.

Bring on the Benedicts.