The kids and I drove to Tahoe for Christmas, and I played Simon and Garfunkel the entire drive. I love the happy songs they sing, and I laugh to myself every time I hear Garfunkel say, “Deep forest green.”
At one point the kids started to bicker, and Kingsley who went to the doctor the day before for her 12-year-old wellness check boasted, “I am so happy to be vaccinated for meningitis.”
Which infuriated Geoffrey, and made him say, “It’s not for certain… you could still get it.”
Then she looked at me scared, and I said, “You can’t get it. Geoffrey leave her alone, and Kingsley stop bragging about your meningitis vaccination.”
We spent six nights at my parents’ house. The kids, the dog, and I shared a bedroom. My older brother was there too with his wife and five kids. My younger sister, who lives up the street, would come by after work, but her four kids were always with us. It was like a daycare center, commune, cult, whatever you call it when there are too many people in one house.
What I miss most when I’m away from home is eating my food; tofu creations, cereal, and Top Ramen with an egg in it. When I’m at my parents I wake up and eat Ruffles potato chips all day long, and then eat whatever cafeteria-style meal has been prepared for dinner. They like to watch TV at volume level 98. What’s stopping them from going to 100 is unclear to me. At home, my kids and I watch TV at volume level 9, maybe we go up to level 14 when we’re eating chips.
I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m trashing my family. I love them, but we would just make for a really unhealthy cult, physically and mentally. I’m used to the big family dynamic, and I know it’s easiest to just go with the flow. This is where being a middle child serves me very well: sit back quietly, quiet is key, and watch the chaos. Like Garfunkel, step in only when completely necessary.
I generally stick around my mom, who seems unfazed and adds levity. As we headed to church for the second time on Christmas Eve, she said, “I’ll be so holy, you’ll be able to see through me.”
By next Christmas, I’ll have amnesia, but when I pulled into the driveway of my house on December 26, I walked up my porch steps like Tim Robbins after escaping Shawshank State Penitentiary. The next day, the kids and I had our Christmas, and then they left to go on vacation with their dad.
I’ve been walking, reading, writing, and doing yoga. The dog follows me around the house, and when I put on my running shoes, he looks at me the same way I stared at the TV when I was a kid watching Mr. Rogers change his shoes, frozen with excitement about the upcoming journey.
I called my older sister while I was making Top Ramen. I found a jar of olives in the cabinet, excited I asked rhetorically, “Should I have olives too?”
Always game, she said, “Hell yes!”
I strained to open the lid and sounded like I was pushing out a baby. The lid wouldn’t budge. She knew I was going on a walk after I finished eating and suggested, “Take the olives with you on the walk, and when you pass a man ask him to open your jar for you.”
I laughed but put the olives back for another day, maybe after I start lifting weights.
On the walk, I ran into a neighbor I had been intentionally avoiding since he told me my garbage bin was too full, for the third time. I usually pretend I’m on the phone when I walk by him. However, going from the most intense social setting to the most mellow, I was up for some small talk. He asked where my kids were, and I told him they were on vacation. He asked, in seriousness, “You miss them?”
I was reminded why I hated talking to him, and I said I had to go before the sun went down.
The yoga studio I go to has an amazing instructor. The first time I went last year, I was asked to join by a friend who warned me, “It’s sort of like a cult.”
How did she know I would be drawn in? Hot yoga is an hour and a half of intense cardio, and some meditation in a room with the thermostat set at 98 degrees. The people in this class could easily do cross-fit, but we prefer the calming presence of our teacher, who like Mr. Rogers, tells us everything is exactly the way it is meant to be, and we are perfect.
After yoga, my friend and I chatted in the parking lot. She started saying, “I’m not really into New Year’s resolutions…” and told me about wanting a career change for the upcoming year. I encouraged her to go for it, and said, “New Year’s resolutions, or not, it’s natural to make life plans around this time, everything is dead and it’s cold.”
I pointed to the leafless trees surrounding us in the gloomy gray parking lot. I love New Year’s resolution, it’s like a baby shower for the year. This is the fattest and saddest time of the year, and given all my downtime self-care, I’m feeling and looking pretty good. Plus, I'm vaccinated for meningitis! But, I want to be prepared for when everything comes back to life.
My cousin and I had a fantastic two-hour conference call on New Year’s Eve to plan out our year. Then I typed out my list, printed it, and thumb-tacked it to the wall behind me. The list to me is like running shoes to the dog, it’s taking me places. Places like lunch, with my dad, who opened my olives for me.
