Is that the same lady with a baby caught on camera at the Mariners’ game last night? I ask myself this about the woman in the lower row — she’s in the shot when left-handed batters are up swinging, just behind our team’s dugout. In her arms, she’s rocking, a blanket draped over the baby.
I’ve felt the pang twice in the past seven innings to write. It’s like a push from a kid behind me in line — when I’m distracted and the gap in front of me gets too big. “Go,” he says. The little shit, I think. But he’s right. It’s time.
Today’s TikTok video is performing better than all the past weeks combined. It’s me talking about the secret of life — and it’s in mediocrity. In doing less. In lowering the bar, one can be incredibly happy. The comments — “I feel this!” and “With my 15 years left on this planet, I’m shooting for peace with myself” — are nice to see. It’s comforting to know others feel the relief of it being okay… to just be okay.
I get such big success feelings from baking. A loaf of bread and some English muffins this afternoon got my motor revving, so I followed it up with a late-afternoon rendezvous with pretzels — poofy, maybe a little too poofy. Later, I watched a YouTube tutorial on how to improve my shaping technique. Turns out the middle should be chubby, and the ends need to be rolled into tiny tails before looping and twisting them together.
Boiling them for a minute in baking soda water is my favorite step, both for bagels and pretzels — mostly because it’s unique, but also because it’s what gives them their squishy awesomeness.
I disdain the mess, though — the flour dustings, the stuck dough, the thousand utensils on every surface. I look around and want to cry. More? I think. I don’t have more. And so I don’t. I sit in the porch’s rocking chair, read a page of my book, or take a rock and smash acorns with Evelyn on the driveway.
Then later, when I’ve separated myself from the do-do-do, I’ll make it fun again. “Anyone want to do a super-fast clean with me for the next five minutes?” I call out. “Google,” I say, “set a timer for five minutes.” And off we go. Since enfolding Evelyn into the dishwasher routine, she’s usually quick to join in when I ask.
I can’t with this team. We just had to hold them for two innings — but that’s out the window with an error at third by Naylor. Then a double by some Detroit guy scored—
Er, can I fast-forward? Mariners just scored.
And with not a seat empty in the stadium, it’s a sea of motion — hands clapping, jumping, high-fiving.
I should go. You know. Because. Focus. And good bringing them good joojoo.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 