I write to get ahead of my thinking. Thinking tricks me. It reverse-engineers what’s true. It’s the white-van man with oversized lollipops saying, Come here. I don’t want that. I just want to be. To be me—whatever that looks like, however it blooms.
Some spikes are likely at the base. Up the stem, deep emerald greens. Dew on a blossom like a tear, or like a painter chose that exact spot for the sun to catch—a gel-like reminder of yesterday’s rain. My color. Vibrant one day, limp the next, decaying, then falling over. It’s nice being a flower.
I have seven minutes to write. 7-7-7 flashes through my mind—a jackpot that’s never landed for me. Then again, I haven’t pulled a one-armed bandit in over ten years, so the odds are pretty bad. Still, I think about gambling. Not $100. Maybe $800. $1,000 feels wrong. Too much. But $800 gives room to go up and down over a few days in Vegas.
There are no real plans to go to Vegas. This is all paragraph-fantasy: a woman with a long black feather tucked into a ribbon around her forehead, fishnets, a tray. She waits on me. I imagine the awkward pressure to tip her while I’m losing, but also hoping that I’m winning.
I’d go out to eat—lobster, or steak, or a very sushi-heavy seven-course meal. We kind of did that once. On a long drive out of the Arizona national parks, we spent a night in Vegas. Evelyn was little. Walking, still potty training. I loved the freewheeling nature of that trip—her perched roadside on a portable potty. Adventuring with a young child is its own kind of bravery. Solo is one thing. A friend is another. A toddler is a full operation.
I loved walking into town in Moab with Maria. A rare ladies’ night while the dads—our husbands, who are brothers—stayed back, cooked dinner, and put on a kids’ movie. We became old bar-going versions of ourselves again. A spicy margarita for me, gin-something for her.
That trip gave me exactly what I needed. Old places, new people. Nature reminding me that, actually, things are okay.
Which brings me back to that seven-course meal—at a restaurant in the Venetian. I rarely think about it. Maybe because if I did, my body would pull me straight toward it. Desire like a magnet.
I paused the latest season of Alone to write this and will reward myself with the rest once I’m done. I like that balance. A taste, and a taste. Writing and living. I want both.
So why did I bring up that Vegas dinner when all it does is turn me into a moth at the window—drawn to the glow, mistaking hunger for direction.
Because it’s fun and because I can.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 