Not much pushes me out of bed to write. I love that cozy, warm feeling of waking up too early, only to fall back asleep for another hour or two. But my mind—it’s awake. And because of the squeaking of its hamster wheel, rest feels like a tug-of-war.
I don’t care politically. And by saying that, I worry you’ll judge me. That I have to take a stance, that my position should come with a pitchfork and a torch. But I’ve tried that before, and it nearly broke me. I got really sick—psychologically sick—because of it. So now, I take care of myself by only allowing my toe to dip into the water. That way, if the water is scalding—which it often is—only a small burn will remain. I can get through the day, mildly wounded but still moving forward.
Being a counselor, I work with people who dive headfirst into the fire. They come to me for relief and guidance, and it’s when I’m at my healthiest and most balanced that I’m most capable of doing so.
My bread game is off. From using an inactive starter to mixing up bread and English muffin dough, to forgetting I was even cooking. And even though I was on the fence about going to book club, my splashing around with Evelyn and Dave in the pool made me lose track of time. I ended up face-palming when I realized I’d be twenty minutes late, but with the added hesitation about the hour-plus drive there and back, I decided to stay home instead.
It’s one of those days—where it feels like a series of misfortunate blunders. Like Mr. Bean or Charlie Brown, where the viewer (me) could say, “Oh, bother,” with a chuckle, and eat, like I just did, an English muffin masquerading as a mini loaf of bread.
Or I could be mad. I could get serious about it and say, “Damn these middle Georgia birds and their refusal to eat at my feeder.”
But then I remembered something amusing from my day. After my haircut, I waited for Dave and Evelyn and walked across the street from the Tribe Salon. It wasn’t just any old walk—it was a reminder of why I like cars with air conditioning. The humid heat was like hot breath under a heavy duvet, sticking with me every step. In the coolness of Goodwill, I waited, thumbing through t-shirts and tanks.
In the next aisle, three women stood, their voices at a solid 7, while the rest of the store hummed at a volume 1 or 2.
They’d graduated in 1987. How do I know? They said it over and over, shaking their heads in disbelief they’d reunited. And then there was talk of Rodney and Leroy, her cousins. This has nothing to do with the point of the story, but I think you need to know how captivated I was by their mini reunion—their admission of a mutual friend who had passed, and the final goodbye, which, of course, had to do with church. The volume 8 one asked, “You see that lady in the second row sometimes, banging on that tambourine, just wailing on it?” Even though the woman admitted she had, the explainer woman continued, “Like she’s jamming that tambourine like she’s speaking to the Lord himself with it? Well, that’s me.”
And with that, I’ll return to my bread-making failures, keep brainstorming ideas for a more captivating bird feeder, and daydream about shelf placement on the boringly bare kitchen nook’s wall. Until then, here’s to embracing the “less thans.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 