Nobody willingly reaches for the Honest Company Pink Lemonade juice box from the beverage fridge. Its sad, boxy self collects dust on the bottom shelf like goths gravitating to black, while hands eagerly snatch grape, apple, and fruit punch. I’ve made it the only option to give the unpopular lemonade a fighting chance. Stacked eight deep, it stands lonely in the fridge, while the coveted flavors await their spotlight in the pantry.
Meanwhile, the fly carnage continues to grow. I’ve discovered their hideout on the bar of the pendant light, an inch-wide strip that tests my swatting precision. Their preferred landing spots—like a glass of water or a half-eaten sandwich on the kitchen island—aren’t exactly where I’d like to send them to fly heaven. Even worse is the window above the sink. A careless flick of the wrist turns the glass into a Pollock-style splatter canvas.
In two days, I’m driving thirty minutes to a Starbucks in Macon to meet strangers for a writing group. I’m nervous. I’m not sure what I’m looking for—help with my book? A space to write? Definitely not a critique of my work, though I wouldn’t mind critiquing others. Starting something new is always awkward. The sizing each other up, the polite but strange questions, the longing for the ice-breaking phase to end. Why do we put ourselves through this? For the possibility of something—or nothing. Still, what the heck—it’s something to do.
As I type this, I’m soaking in a one-handed foot rub from Dave. The pressure of his fingers working into the muscles of my arches is indescribably lovely. It’s like sinking underwater and floating there, weightless and suspended. Maybe his motivation has something to do with the Kraken leading 4–1, but I’m not complaining. A good foot rub is its own kind of magic.
However much I’d like to spend more time with you, I need to get reading. I’m 40% done with the book club’s book and with six more days to go, I need to get busy. Wish me luck.
Take care and enjoy your night. Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 