I’m bored. And worried I’ll bring that boredom to the page. Boring, boring, boring. The excess time I spoke of yesterday—the inevitable calm after the storm before the next storm. I’m in the thick of it. A nice sit-down, strumming my chinny-chin-chin, and pondering is usually a welcome retreat, but that’s not where I’m at. I’m back in elementary school, sitting behind nose-picking Robert Kenney with a month left until summer, and the tick, tick, tick of the clock stands between me and sleeping in, water slides and cloud gazing.
But I’m getting by. Writing helps, and studying Spanish, with my current goal of learning “tengo que,” helps. I also have little things to look forward to, like the Tunes at Tapps, where Dave and I’ll do food truck eating and listen to live music.
Eight days until we move is a reach just outside of my grasp. I tumble to the floor, press my life-alert emergency response, and say, “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up.”
Do you get the point yet? I’m itching and scratching for this next chapter, but my hands are tied behind my back while I’m forced to read the rest of this one. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not necessarily a bad chapter; it’s just that I’ve never been a good waiter. Restaurant waiter? Now that’s a different story.
Wing Central never knew what hit them when 20-year-old me got on top of the table with a co-worker and started doing the Macarena.
Everyone needs something from me. It’s perceiving the needs of others that feel like burdens. Again, I think. Just leave me in peace. But even alone, with myself, I don’t find peace. I put my feet to the fire, scrutinizing my behavior and—Dang, I can’t think straight. The scent of the new goats is wafting across the deck area. It’s like a wet towel that sat in the washer crossed with—what was I saying? Oh yeah, scrutinizing my behavior and lecturing myself on how to improve. I thought I’d gone over this with myself—You are flawed, and those flaws and resulting discounts make you perfect.
I’m the 80% off clearance, baby!
Seated on the deck, Dave’s on a lounge chair, and I’m on a narrow recliner. The smell is back. I’ll add another ingredient to the goat smell—that smell when you stick your nose in tennis shoes to see how bad they are, take a deep whiff, and you get hot fabric mixed with foot leavings.
In building the new house, I feel so powerless, so out of control. I listen to myself, and I think, what a whiney baby I am. I feel disconnected from myself, but the real question is, do I know what connecting with myself feels like? I just got the major giggles. Sure, I took half a THC edible and told my friend, “I’m in the breeze and a recliner,” after she asked me how I was doing, knowing I was on the substance.
Then, in trying to tell Dave what I’d texted Alli, giggles kept me from getting it out. The image I couldn’t shake was of me, the wickedest witch’s quirky and wildly inappropriate cousin once removed, flying by on a recliner—the newest and most comfortable way to travel, of course.
Evelyn’s 30 minutes out. On the drive home from her first Seattle Sounders soccer game. My cousin Savanah and her husband are season ticket holders and offered to take her. We’d planned to drive with her five minutes down the road to see a Neil Diamond tribute band. But once given the opportunity, she chose the soccer game “cause I never saw that one before.” My cousin texted me while they were there. She got a certificate for going to her first game, too.
I’m so excited to hear how it went. This may be the first time she’s gone with someone other than her grandparents without us. I imagine from an outsider, it might not be that big of a deal, but to me, it’s huge. So many things as a parent are huge, which I both love and wish was a little less intense.
I’ll edit this and hopefully post it in time for Evelyn to get here. I want to be present and ready to hear all about it.
Thanks for dropping in.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 