I search for words I can’t grasp, like an early-onset dementia patient. Sometimes, sentences come at me like a salad without space, thrown in my face, and I stutter, saying, “sí, uh, sí, uh, sí.” It’s week two of studying conversational Spanish with Mercedes from Spain.
Knowing how my Spanish-speaking self operates, I have a glass or two of alcohol to loosen my grip and access the encyclopedia within. For 45 minutes, we talk about where we live. Mercedes lives on the second floor of a building her mother owns. The first floor is rented to a hairdresser, and the third floor is vacant thanks to the “disgusting” habits of the last tenants, who left it uninhabitable.
We switch languages every five minutes—five in Spanish, and five in English. The only word she stumbles on is “insulation,” which she calls “isolation.” I teach her the word “timber” (she already knows “wood”) to describe a Washington state export.
There are moments when we might as well be on different islands, shouting and waving desperately to understand each other. At least, that’s how it feels to me. Those paralyzed, lost moments don’t happen often, but I wish they didn’t happen at all.
Since they do, I push through. I hope the safety and consistency of our sessions prepare me for the inevitable—being thrown into a real Spanish conversation somewhere, like a raft into raging waters.
Speaking of challenges, I wrapped up a game of chess with my friend Alli today. Unless I’m playing against someone two levels below me, it feels like hiking Everest. My perfectionist brain works overtime, scrutinizing every move, countermove, and possible outcome. Any fun I could have gets squished out like an oozy zit.
Actually, I did have fun. But that’s because, at one point, I told myself, “HAVE FUN,” and then moved where I wanted. Then I did it again. Eventually, I lost—and all was well.
Why are my hobbies so stressful?
Funny enough, I was about to tell you about the therapeutically calm sticker book I worked on today. One page is filled with triangle-shaped stickers, and the other has triangles with corresponding numbers to stick them on. The fourth sticker I stuck ended up way off the line it should have rested on, but who’s keeping track?
Me. That’s who.
I started a compost bin outside. It’s a temporary one until we can build the Taj Mahal of compost bins. My dream bin will house worms and act like a science fair project every time kids come over.
Alright, all these taxing things have me needing sleep. Gotta skedaddle. Love ya, Jaclynn
Going On 40 