ast weekend my boyfriend and
I really wanted to bowl. We were seeking shelter from biting winds in the imagined nostalgia of sleepy bowling alleys, with the lingering whiff of shoe clean spray and Lynx Animal, imagining Elton John’s ‘Benny and the Jets’ would come on mid-game. It seemed like a funky-cute thing to do, to kick-start the latter half of January, after the first half was dedicated to ‘hunkering’ and ‘hibernating’ (can we bury those words along with hygge now?).
