I’ve never been one for magicians.

I’m not quite sure why.

I do love sleight-of-hand — the kind of thing David Blaine used to do before he went absolutely insane — and I love watching little kids go wide-eyed at a good trick, but I would never go out of my way to see a big magic show with people being cut in half and scarves being pulled out of ears and a girl in a sparkly bathing suit doing her best Vanna White.

I used to think it was because I hated illusion and the feeling seeing something that you know isn’t really happening… but then I discovered plumping lip gloss and that was that. Bring the illusion, I say!

I use the word magic all the time, though.

I love calling people magic when they do something amazing or lovely or utterly true.

I love calling a song magic if it thrills me to the core and forces me to dance and listen to it 10,000 times.

I love calling the weather magic if a thunderstorm is brewing, or the sky is cloudless or lit up with fire red and violet at the end of a summer day.

I love calling my laptop magic because, lo, it doth not crash.

I love calling pregnant women magic, because there is definitely a rabbit in THAT hat.

I love calling boys magic when they wear non-white socks.

I love calling the ocean magic because it does what it does and I never get sick of watching.

I love calling coffee magic… well, no, coffee is actually magic.

I love calling myself magic when I manage to make the perfect bernaise or find a new type of flip flop that is extra happy for my feet or actually get through a whole day without saying anything regrettable or injuring some part of my body.

I know my definition of magic is at odds with the true definition because all my “magics” are pretty attainable.

But then again, I figure that’s the best way to see it, after all.