I stare a little too hard at the white glow of the neon sign that reads, “Let’s get naked,” as the not-quite-scalding bath water and salts do their magic. I’m in decompression mode, in the bath after a long workday, and my mind replays the day’s tape, scanning for unbuttoned tasks.
I’m tempted to text two people—wait, no, I found a third. Something in me wants to reassure them that I’m here. But the sheer amount of need aimed my way brings up a question: Haven’t you done enough?
It feels more like a statement than a question. And the pivot—to I’ve done enough—means releasing the social contracts, the next steps, even the urge to address mistakes right now. None of it is urgent. The only urgency is to soak in this tub, brain-dump, ease into writing, then saunter my towel-dried body into bed where the Mariners are kicking off day one of the season.
I glance back at my phone. A red notification near the text app sends a small surge of stress. Nope, I say. I turn the screen off—devotion to rest, not do-time.
Funny how writing can be both a stressor and a release. Tonight, it’s the latter—a soft, frolicking place to land. A kind of many-fingered massage. My favorite.
Effortless and free, my thoughts move from mind to page.
The day is finally here! Tomorrow morning, I’ll make the 30-minute drive for my 8:45 check-in and 9:00 ultrasound appointment—to finally, after three… maybe four years, identify what this bump in my neck is. My hope is that it’s something benign—a calcified lymph node, maybe. What a relief that would be. Either way, to know—to get this pebble out of my shoe—is an important step in caring for my body.
Well, opening day—the 50th season—is starting. A Seahawks player just spoke, mentioning they won the Super Bowl in their 50th season. Could two Seattle teams do it in theirs?
We’ll see.
Ooh—the first pitch. It’s a strike. Let’s go.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 