I was ranting to a friend about something and she said, so do you like anything? And it arrested me, because as I get older I do increase my list of dislikes, my discovery of areas that contain room for improvement, my recommendations subtle and not, perceived slights, accumulated grievances, clearly articulated affronts. What do I like? 

I like everything bagels toasted and still warm but with cold, almost solid, cream cheese. I like Al Green at almost any time of day or listening context. I like the memory of drinking Coca-Cola from a six-ounce glass bottle at my grandmother’s house in Cleveland, Mississippi, when still a child. I like the sounds of my children moving around the house. I like it when my dog lays on my feet. I like making strangers laugh. I like the United States Post Office. I like it when I walk by people and they are humming to themselves. I like it when strangers talk to me for no reason as if I were their friend. I like it when people call me boss, honey, hun, chief, etc. I like the ceremonial handshake, the unnecessary fist bump. I like very cold unflavored mineral water from a glass bottle. I like hearing from friends. I like riding a bike in almost all contexts. I like Herbie Hancock in almost all contexts, from almost all periods. I like being sucked into a novel for three days. I like the memory of being nervous. I like not feeling thirsty. I like email when it approaches physical letters. I like postcards in almost all contexts. I like almost everything David Hockney created. I like Louisiana’s Pure Crystal Hot Sauce. I like watching performers who are freakishly exceptional. I like Cynthia Ozick. I like Nicholson Baker. I like thinking about them going about their day in the pale shadow of their lifelong work. I like mid-career Beastie Boys. I like mid-90s David Foster Wallace when his sentences were most elastic. I like how Faulkner is secretly funny. I like tap dancing in old movies. I like that one gif of the puppet giving side eye. I like extremely ordinary drip coffee piping hot with honey instead of sugar. I like kolaches, except those with egg. I like lunch with friends. I like remembering that one great uncle who when I saw him as a child always asked how much I weighed. I like it when my kids riff. I like it when my kids have friends over and they bustle around the house puppy-like. I like this one podcast, especially when the two hosts hit a beam of mutually reinforced riffing. I like going for a walk. I like it when the mornings are surprisingly cool. I like it out west. I like live music if not too loud. I like Robert Hass. I like the idea of a sabbatical. I like Barack Obama. I like the song “C’est La Vie” by Robbie Nevil. I like almost everything by Huey Lewis and the News. I like going to art museums and not reading the captions and only staying for 90 minutes. I like the memory of watching movies by myself as a child early in the morning before anyone woke up. I like how Florida feels porous. I like college towns. I like small cakes. I like British gardens. I like the idea of a pub as opposed to a bar or a club. I like the wild yeast sourdough from this one place in Birmingham. I like Chicago, both as place and idea. I like the television program Veep. I like the television program Seinfeld. I like re-listening or re-watching something I liked as a kid and discovering that I still like it. I like Birkenstocks. I like the suede Adidas campus shoe in grey. I like knowing what the plan is. I like remembering Looney Tunes. I like remembering songs from Sesame Street. I like the Grateful Dead live album Reckoning. I like hitting on just the right song while driving. I like eating a sandwich that was made with love. I like watching tennis on television with the sound off. I like puttering in the morning. I like the idea of leftovers. I like dropping by and when others drop by. I like Levon Helm. I like not wearing socks. I like how a family generates its own private language. I like not having lots of stuff in my pockets. I like feeling freshly shaven after finally shaving. I like rooms that have those really small hexagonal floor tiles. I like the idea of sailboats. 

This is not everything I like, only what I could think of immediately. It’s helpful to remember that I don’t hate everything, that I don’t move through the world taking absolutely everything as a personal insult, even if that’s how I appear much of the time. It’s strange to remember what one likes and to remember to like things — and to refuse to ask why, to resist the categorical impulse, to simply let enjoyment occur, like accidentally wading into an invisible cold patch of water in the creek. It’s hard to be likeable, for sure, but it’s also hard to be able to like things, anything, even oneself.