It sounds like the banging of a marching band—the bass of it, the lowness. Rhythmic and ominous. Then comes the breeze, equally teasing. A light warm-up. A few jumping jacks. You keep swimming, acting as if there’s nothing to see, until—
That big rumble. No mistaking it. A low growl that pops off suddenly, like an M-80. That’s when we spring into action. Hammocks down, rugs rolled up, pillows stacked against the siding. The weather is on the move. Like a text from a friend 20 minutes away, we rush to finish the last-minute touches.
The rain hit midway through a session. I should’ve paused and run to the porch to save the couch cushion covers, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles. Another day of drying before the couch can be reassembled.
I’m distracted. Writing after nodding off during TV-watching should mean I go straight to bed. Do not collect $200.
But I took one night off, and the taskmaster that is me won’t allow it.
Oh! I figured out something. After cooking, I tend to glance at the dirty pans, plates, and sticky food bits with a spike of dread. I don’t want to clean. But after mentioning it to Dave, I had the idea to put in my headphones—to split my attention. It worked. The burden of cleaning felt less oppressive, even meaningful, as I listened to Español con Juan on YouTube. He’s the best—he repeats parts of sentences just enough that I can keep up, feel competent, and translate in real time.
Also, I’m moving the alcohol out of the kitchen. It’s meant for entertaining, and it has been—but I’ve partaken more than I’d like. I’m sure I could resist it without moving it, but still. Why not remove it so that, when I reach for a coffee cup, a lineup of whiskey, vodka, and rum isn’t staring me down? Plus, with my four-cup output of sugar water per day for the honeybees and hummingbirds, I need a better spot for all the cooking utensils anyway.
I’m making progress. Little things that feel like grounding and care.
Alrighty, that does it for me. I’ll see you here tomorrow.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 