I heard my client utter these words before, but this week, her lamentations carried a different weight. “I’m close to fifty, in an overpriced house, now three times divorced, with a cat,” she sighed. I decided to repeat them back to her.
In response, she offered a weary nod, as if accepting the undeniable truth of her situation. But it wasn’t always like this, not five years ago.
She had embarked on a relationship filled with fireworks and excitement, believing it was her second chance at love. “Our story,” she had said, “I believed in it.” Even when the abuse started, she tried to convince herself they could overcome it. She carried a sense of guilt once it started as if she had somehow caused it all. “It was just her trauma,” she told herself, “and people can change. I believed in us so much.” So she clung to that dream, a dream our minds sometimes believe in, regardless of the consequences.
And now, here she was, on the brink of fifty, in an overpriced house, three divorces behind her, with only a cat for company. I repeated those words back to her, the cold, hard facts of her life. The variables that had shaped her were no longer a dirty secret, at least not in my eyes.
So I said it again, this time with a chuckle. She looked at me skeptically, asking, “What’s so funny?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “The reality of your life,” I said, “it is what it is. But, honestly, it’s a sitcom I’d definitely watch.”
“Oh, really?” She responded with a hint of amusement. “You’d be watching a lot of silence.”
“Well,” I quipped, “then to keep it interesting we’d need a narrator for your thoughts.”
My own thoughts are taking a detour while writing this, craving delicious, seasoned, cilantro-filled tacos.
And I forgot to tell you about the mystery of the peeling drywall in the garage. Day after day, more of it disappeared, the paint flaking away. Each sighting left me baffled, wondering if it was an act of nature or something intentional. Could it be Evelyn or Archie?
Then, yesterday, I saw more drywall bits and paper strewn about. I turned, and in the beak of one of my ducks, I spotted the paper. “Aw-haw!” I exclaimed, catching it with a bill full. “It’s you!”
Case dismissed.
With tacos still on my mind, I decided to preheat the oven (it’s at 331 degrees on the way to 425) to make a batch of mozzarella sticks. Skipping dinner was silly, especially when I had leftover meaty spaghetti sauce in a Tupperware container, perfect for dipping.
Early tomorrow, we’re heading to the cabin. Should I be sharing this online? What if someone is scanning my blog for the perfect opportunity like the Wet Bandits did to Kevin McCalister’s home in “Home Alone”? Well, our TVs are outdated, and we don’t keep any gold here (or anywhere for that matter). But please, water my houseplants.
With that, I’m retiring to research games for an older Xbox our friend Patrick gave us last night. But I’m overwhelmed by the thought of choosing one. Hold on—there are 1,300 games to choose from? I guess I’d better get started.
See you tomorrow, broadcasting live from the Pacific Coast’s ocean.
Take care, Jaclynn
Going On 40 