The other F word
Today is Wednesday. Hump day. The day is crisp and bright. In a blink it’ll be the weekend. And then another Monday and another Wednesday. And then it’ll be Christmas and then ski week. And March and May and summer camps and more crisp, autumn days. And then I’ll be forty.
They say “forty is the new thirty,” and maybe when I get there, I’ll agree. But back then I sure don’t remember thinking, “Oh nice, this is how forty will feel!”
Forty just seems… significant. I’m supposed to be all settled and figured-out. Instead I find myself still searching, unsure of what I’ll find and if it’ll be any good. And no matter what I do, I’m still be heading toward this checkered line I drew in the sand some time long ago, watching days race by, catching an occasional whiff of that greener pasture just around the bend.
What I need is to get out of my head.
I walk out into the crisp day and head to a posh little market around the block. It’s family-owned, sparsely-stocked, well-lit. Expensive. When you Google “fancy grocery store near me,” it happens to be the first search result, and I’m counting on finding a perfectly fancy treat that will, at least for a time, occupy my brain receptors.
In my ear is a riveting true tale of a Cincinnati bootlegger, a murder and trial and mystery, and somehow I’ve missed the last eight minutes of it. My mind is a rolodex of things I should have done, something I should have said, someone I forgot to call. My eyes stray into undraped windows, and I wonder about the people who live behind these bright colored front doors, toy-strewn driveways and manicured hedges. What kind of dreaded milestones are they careening towards?
It’s quiet in the store when I get there. But it’s usually quiet in our swanky market.
I’m Goldilocks all up and down the gourmet aisles — this bar has too much sugar, that candy doesn’t have enough chocolate. Inevitably I end up in the bakery, where I’m met by giant cookies and plump macarons, all too excessive.
As I survey the offerings, I see an old gentleman from the corner of my eye. His face is a raisin, a wide belt is holding up his pants several inches above his waist, and I instantly feel a bit sad for him. But I’ve underestimated him, I’ve misjudged. This man’s destination is the cake display, where he points a confident, crooked finger at the lavishly iced red velvet on top shelf. And I catch my sadness morph into something I can’t quite place at first… it’s awe with a tinge of envy. How grand it is to know exactly what you want! Here’s a man in control. He wants cake!
I pick up a 99-cent chocolate at the cash register on my way out. It’s satisfactory and gone before I round the corner.
I stride back into the bright afternoon. I feel a surge of energy (admittedly, it may just be the chocolate), but I want to be the driver in my life and not a mere passenger. And in fact, there is a certain car I’ve been eyeing lately!
