“That’s enough to taste it,” is how I measure the heavy cream for my morning coffee.
Grinch coffee cup in hand — the one that somehow escaped being boxed up until next Christmas — I carry it to the window. The window overlooks the resort’s employee parking lot and a ridgeline of pines.
My deep-breath moment is cut short. There’s a woman in the lot below, headphones on, moving with a light gazelle step, not dressed too warmly despite the chill. Running for exercise.
I want to be her.
And also, I don’t.
Waking when I want, coffee in hand, watching from the window? That’s fine by me.
I’ve been washing our dishes in the bathtub. For whatever reason, the sink runs as slow as a snail stuck in traffic — and it’s barely warm. The bath faucet, though, blasts like a geyser, skin-peeling hot. Even if bits of salad or oatmeal slip in, the drain isn’t one of those tiny metal ones with holes. It’s a full circle that hinges up like a drawbridge, leaving gaps wide enough to swallow anything I need gone.
Checkout is in two hours. The water park reopens in one.
With the success of bringing the Gorilla cart, espresso machine, and dignified cutlery — plates, silverware, cutting board, butcher knife, cups, straws — I’m thinking April’s Disney World trip may need similar comforts from home.
With my parents and brother and his family there, maybe I’ll make a batch of English muffins and bring my homemade raspberry jam. After seeing the price tag for a three-pack of Cuties — $4.19 in the hotel cafeteria — I protest internally. I’ll buy a five-pound bag of thirty of those citrus gems for five bucks instead.
Thankfully we’re driving and can load the car with price-saving food for us and for the gang flying in.
On another note, I notice my threshold for certain activities is low.
Take the wave pool. I don’t like wave pools.
I’m seated front and center, watching Dave and Evelyn and the new dad friend joking around. The kids are nearby. The mom I’d been talking to is there too. And I’m here. The tug-of-war between joining and staying put presses heavy on my chest.
Am I doing something wrong? Am I a bad mom? Wife? Member of society?
It feels like a loaded potato of trapdoors leading to the same conclusion: I have to be everything, all the time, or I fail.
That’s noise. A tsunami wave that, when I fight it, pulls me under — suffocating in its force.
But then it smooths. Stillness returns. And I can see that everything before was just reaction — temporary distortions through a grimy lens.
So I’m not in the wave pool.
So I’m not manufacturing a core memory.
So I’m doing the best I can and it doesn’t feel like enough.
So what!
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 