Cinnamon Roll Awakening

 

At the beginning of summer, I took the kids to a megachurch in the neighborhood, just for fun. I was curious about these places that treat church like a big rock concert. The pastor started his sermon with a question. He asked, “Does anyone feel like they’re becoming more introverted with age?”

My twelve-year-old daughter raised her hand. It was the only connection we had with the service. Even the barbecue afterward was lackluster, in desperate need of Lawry's seasoning salt.

Kiki might feel like an introvert at school, but she’s very much an extrovert around her family. She walks around singing songs she makes up. She sang me a song, and I didn’t catch on she was making fun of me till she hit the chorus. Titled “Mom’s not Miss America” the song started with She has pimples on her chin, coffee stained teeth, and wears chunky glasses then moved into Mom’s not Miss America, and one complimentary line about me being nice. It was as offensive as that “Happy for the rest of our life/Make an ugly woman your wife” song.

I generally think all her songs are funny. The other day, she was singing, “Satan is your boyfriend.” And I thought, how clever, she’s just like Taylor Swift, not worried about saying negative things and calling someone out for being rude, and here she’s likened an asshole to having satan as their boyfriend. I told her as much, and she said, “It’s actually Satan is my boyfriend.” 

I told her I didn’t like the song anymore, and she laughed and walked away.

I get a lot of spiritual fulfillment from yoga. The lady whose class I attend, Dina, is a certifiable whack-a-doo, like when she shouts to the class, “You’re so sensual,” as we move our pelvis up and down into bridge pose, but she’s incredibly good at her job, which ultimately is to make you feel good about yourself. 

She reminded us about Scream Therapy, which I hadn’t practiced since I was in my last year of college, and my little sister and I were spending a weekend together and felt the weight of a lot of stress so we’d count down from three and scream at the top of our lungs while we were driving around in the car.

I tried it with the kids. Kiki seemed to like it, but Geoffrey refused to do it, and he looked at me like I was a certifiable whack-a-doo. Geoffrey is not as much of a hippie as the rest of us.

I was at the library and saw the book Jonathan Livingston Seagull, so I checked it out, thinking, “Great, now I can see what all the rage was about.” 

As I closed the cover after reading the final page of the book, I gave the look that Geoffrey gave me after scream therapy, and thought, “No wonder hippies get trapped by cults so easily.” 

Kiki, the introvert at school and extrovert at home, asked, “When will you tell me what sex is?”

I said, “I’m still figuring out what to say, but I’ll do it soon.” 

When I was in sixth grade I watched a cartoon about sex and reproduction. I didn’t watch it at school, I watched it at home because, believe it or not, my mom was a sex-ed teacher. She must have just pushed her lesson plan into our household because we didn’t get a sit-down discussion on the birds and the bees, we got a VHS.

My school sex education started in seventh grade. My teacher started the lesson by propping open the door and making us scream, “Penis, Penis, Penis. Vagina, Vagina, Vagina.” 

All I remember beyond that was a woman with AIDs came to talk to the class. The only reason I remember that is because my mom talked to the principal afterward. I came home and asked my mom what the lady meant when she said her boyfriend and her were “eating leftovers” when they had sex because they use saran wrap. This probably made my teacher hate me, even though I didn’t do it to get her in trouble, I only did it because I felt like I was the only person not in on the big joke. Anyway, my mom’s not going to let someone’s terminal illness (at the time) be an excuse for having inappropriate jokes when headlining the seventh-grade classroom sex-ed show.

The next phase of sex education came freshman year of high school. This one was much more effective, for me at least, because I had a better idea of the mechanics of it all. The teacher followed up her definition of sex with a slide show of herpes-infected vaginas and penises. My mom had no complaints.

Our last weekend of summer we went to Tahoe. I had been craving a cinnamon roll since May and finally decided I was going to make this moment happen.  On the drive to the bakery, I called my mom. She yelled at me, “I have a roll of cinnamon rolls in the fridge. They expired last month, and someone needs to eat them.”

I said, “No Mom. I’m craving a delicious bakery cinnamon roll, not your garbage.” 

She made me feel like an elitist snob, and then said, “Becky’s kids have no problem eating my expired food.”

When Kiki and I lined up at the bakery, there was one cinnamon roll left in the display case, and I made a major strategic error by loudly saying, “I’ve got to get that cinnamon roll. It looks amazing,” and then realized there were four customers lined up ahead of us. As each customer ordered, I’d hope with all my might that they wouldn’t order that last cinnamon roll, my cinnamon roll. 

The man in front of me ordered it. He knew more than any of the others how much I wanted it. I didn’t get mad, I had already waited three months for a cinnamon roll, what’s one more day, week, or month going to do? As we were leaving, and I saw him sitting at his table with the cinnamon roll still in its container with no indication he was going to scarf it down, I knew in my heart, that he didn’t even really want the cinnamon roll.

Geoffrey and I went on a hike that weekend. A second attempt at this mountain. Last year’s attempt was disastrous; sworn to secrecy about the details, I will just say it involved my not bringing toilet paper on what would have been a seven-hour hike. This time I brought the toilet paper, but we didn’t need it. 

We made it to the top of the mountain. Our spiritual moment didn’t happen on the summit because the wind was blowing 100 miles per hour, and Geoffrey worried he would blow right off the steep mountaintop. It didn’t happen when we peed behind a giant rock off the hiking path, and I looked up and saw a group of people tromping up. The first rule of peeing in public is, “If you can see them, then they can see you.” I wasn’t about to pull up my pants midstream, but I had to believe, in my heart, these people would look away once it dawned on them I was not flashing my Vagina, Vagina, Vagina for shits and giggles, but because I was taking care of business.

The spiritual moment happened on the last hour of the hike. We were so proud to have completed this goal we set two years earlier and had a fun chat as the terrain became much less treacherous. I said to him, “Your sister’s birthday’s coming up, and I’m ordering her this lotion she wants, so you can give it to her as a gift.”

He said, in total earnestness, “Oh, I already know what I’m getting her… I’m buying her some pampers.”

I laughed so hard, the earth shook, and then the sky opened up, and God floated down on a cloud, and kissed us on the head.

Not really, but it kind of felt like that. I’m expecting a similar experience when I finally get to eat a cinnamon roll.

Tokyo Travels

 

The kids and I went to Tokyo for a week at the end of July. It was a whirlwind, and when people ask me, “What did you guys do?” I find a hard time summing it all up in a few sentences. We did what we usually do, we ate food and walked around. We mostly ate at 7-Eleven, and we thought we were masters of the microwaves, coffee dispensers, and really state-of-the-art smoothie makers until Geoffrey put his smoothie cup in without taking the lid off, and broke the machine. Luckily there’s a 7-Eleven on every corner, so we just avoided that one for the rest of our trip.

I told my friend about the 7-Eleven, and she asked, “I wonder why we don’t have these smoothie machines in our 7-Elevens?” And I confidently replied, “Because someone here would use it as a urinal.”

My favorite day was our first full day in the city because we went on a guided tour in a bus, so there was not any logistical thinking, just get on and off, and be satisfied with the 15 tourist hotspots we hit because it would have taken us two weeks to get through those destinations by using the subway.

On the last day, I had to Zoom into a class I’m taking, and then we packed up and got on a shuttle bus to the airport. As we drove away, I realized we were right next to Shinjuku Train station, and had we just walked one block further on one of our nights wondering around we would have come across a really cool neighborhood that I walked through when I was in Tokyo exactly six years earlier. My Eat, Love, Pray trip I crammed into a week after I got divorced.

I’ve taken the kids on epic plane rides before and know that I have to be on high alert, there’s never a moment to close my eyes because their exhaustion makes them unpredictable. Everything can be fine one moment, and then a Coke will get spilled in their lap, Geoffrey will tell Kingsley she has a penis, and Kingsley will scream at the top of her lungs, “I DO NOT HAVE A PENIS.” Or something like that.

I pulled my book out but just watched movies on the seat-back TV. I watched a documentary narrated by Kate Winslet called Eating Ourselves to Extinction that had me convinced I would go vegetarian but have not really implemented it yet. Then I watched the movie Catherine Called Birdy which was so great. Made by Lena Dunham, a brilliant artist who doesn’t get a fair shake by mainstream media, she placed a medieval story in a cute bubble with a sheen of modern style. 

My brother is a staunch Catholic and sends text messages on the family chain relevant to the saints of that day. Many of them are young girls who decided they were called to become nuns at 12 or 13 years old. After watching the movie it makes perfect sense. The alternative to becoming a nun would be to be “sold” to an old man who would repeatedly rape you, then you’d continue to have babies until you die in childbirth. No wonder these young ladies were so receptive to God’s calling.

When we landed in San Francisco, I was eager to get home, but after being up for twenty hours, I felt severely under-caffeinated. During the last 15 minutes of the drive, I was grateful to veer onto the grated ground that gives your butthole the tickles because it jolted me back to reality, and I would say, “Just fifteen more minutes, focus and you will be able to take a nice ten-hour nap.”

I know, the nap is the main component in the recipe for jet lag, but I was spent. It took us a week to get back on track. We had a major setback two days after we got home when Geoffrey’s best friend spent the night, and their main objective for sleepovers is to stay awake all night long. I had another class that night and hid in my room on Zoom while they shot Nerf rifles around the house, but at one point someone came in and said, the toilets overflowing.

My Zoom face of interest was maintained while I nodded as the teacher gave me notes on my work, all the while imagining a flood of shit moving through our house like in Triangle of Sadness. Luckily the water didn’t keep flowing, and I was able to clean up the mess after my turn was up, and I could turn my camera off for a couple of minutes.

At three in the morning, I had to confiscate all their devices and tell them they needed to just lay on the couch, and they could have the TV on, but I know they still had an iPad in their grips. I wonder if I were a big man/dad, would they pass all their shit over, and go to bed after I asked them too? Child energy is crazy, and I wish I could stay up late and be full of life, but I also know the brain needs sleep, and staying up all night means you are just fewer hours away from giving yourself a psychotic break.

The kids had a few more days before they went back to school, so we went to the movies for a double feature. We watched Barbie and then Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Kingsley was so excited to watch Barbie, she dressed in all pink, right down to my 13-year-old pink Converse high tops. After the movie, when we sat in the reclines for TMNT, I asked Kiki, “Do you know what a gynecologist is?” And she said no, so I told her, and her face lit up, clued in on the joke she laughed.

That night I was putting the kids to bed, and Geoffrey who loves to tease me to no end, said, “Hey mom! Guess what?” I said, “What?” And he replied, “I love patriarchy.” So I hit him over the head with a pillow, which is how he wanted me to react because he laughed hysterically. I had to remind him, it wasn’t very long ago when women were treated very poorly in this world. It’s not set right still, but we live in a much better time. Thank you birth control.

Marriage itself is one of those things that I won’t fully comprehend, but there are very lucky people out there whom it works for. My parents, it works for them wonderfully. I just don’t think it’s right for me. Madonna sums it up nicely. That’s Madonna the singer/dancer sensation, not Madonna Mother Mary sensation. She says, “I think that everyone should get married at least once, so you can see what a silly, outdated institution it is.”

After I saw Barbie, of course, I thought about a lot of things, that’s what a good movie does. I wonder if there was some primitive agreement made by women to take on this submissive role and absorb the dominance that men need to inflict in order to attain whatever brain chemical is released from feeling powerful, as a way to protect children. I worry that the rise of women puts children at risk, and when I read about child porn, men shooting up kids’ schools, and human trafficking, it makes me so sick. But what’s the solution, women resort to giving up all power so men don’t create this workaround to then feed this need to dominate on children. I don’t know though, it’s probably just a dark thought and maybe there’s not much to it. I hope so.

A couple of people were really impressed I took the kids to Tokyo, and I guess it does demonstrate a good sense of adaptability. I think I’m at a loss for words to sum up our week in the largest metropolitan area in the world because we barely scratched the surface. I hope we go back in six years. Then Kingsley will be getting ready for college instead of middle school and Geoffrey will be bigger than both of us. We can finally make it to the anime studio, watch sumo wrestlers, and find the world's best egg-salad sandwich because as we drove away from the city to the airport, I felt sort of sad like there was so much I didn’t discover, so much I wanted to know.

A Familiar Song

My boyfriend started singing a song I didn’t recognize. He assured me I knew the song, and carried on singing it. For over a minute I listened to him, wracking my brain, but couldn’t recognize it in the slightest. Johnny said, "It's More Than Words by Extreme. I know you've heard this song."

I said, with certainty, "I have never heard that song before."

He played the song on YouTube, and within three seconds I said, “Oh, yeah, I know this song.”

Lyrics have always been my super weakness. I can’t recall any of the lyrics to songs on my running playlist, songs I’ve been listening to for over a decade. I can hum a song, but, like Britney, I need the track playing to sing along. I only know the words to Karate by Tenacious D, a song I play for Geoffrey on his birthday because it makes him so happy, but one day a year is all we get of that masterpiece or it won’t be as special.

The kids went on vacation with their dad last week, and I maximized the time. A psychic once told me to always write when the kids are away and be present with them when they’re at my house. She finished the session by telling me when I find coins it’s my dead relatives saying hi, which I took as canned. But sometimes psychics are like religion, and you just have to take the bits you like and leave the bits you don’t.

I find coins all the time. If the psychic is right, I’m rich with celestial lookouts. Last weekend I was running and found a dollar bill. This was just the denomination I needed to go into the week.

The house is so quiet when the kids are gone, I keep the place as silent as a Scientologist Birthing Center when I’m writing. As the days went by, I started getting anxious and would lay awake at night worried that I needed to tell the kids things. I was really concerned I never told them they should avoid metal straws. This concern was compounded by terrible mental images of a metal straw in front of a face, and a sneeze sending their face forward so their eyeball is speared by the unbendable straw. 

I remember when I was driving with my mom once in high school. We passed a garbage bag on the road, and my mom swerved. She looked at me and said, “Never drive over a plastic bag, there could be a baby in it.”

I assured her I wouldn’t. That seemed like the most appropriate thing to do.

The kids still sleep in the same bed. I bought Geoffrey a queen bed when we moved into our new house because I was worried that with my boyfriend moving in, there would be readjusting since we all slept in my bed every night. Now Kiki just crawls into bed with G at night, and I usually read to them, and after they’re asleep I go to my room. Occasionally they will come and get me, and I end up sleeping on the bottom of their bed, like the dog.

The week flew by because I took care of a procedure I had coming since March when I had my first mammogram, and the doctor saw two masses he wasn’t sure about. He wasn’t overly concerned and said I could wait and come back in six months to see if they’ve changed size or to get them biopsied. This was the first time I’d gone to a doctor in six years, not counting the dentist I last saw three years ago, and still haven’t gone back to get the other filling, so I decided to get the biopsy because I can’t be on a six-month visitation schedule, and I don’t need another concern keeping me up at night.

The weekend before I went in for the biopsies, I had coffee with a friend, and she told me about a book she was reading and gave an anecdote about people who are diagnosed with brain cancer being THE NICEST people. So the entire time in the doctor's office, when I was interacting with such kind women who work on diseased boobs all day, I was trying my hardest to not react with genuine respect and appreciation for their work. It was impossible to not be nice to them, and I even became paranoid their kindness was out of sympathy and they knew something I didn’t know.

During the two days of waiting for the results, I closed off from the world, read books, and ate like Brendan Fraser preparing for the role of the lifetime. I felt bad for being such bad company on the phone with my sisters, and after they poured out all they had to say, I’d tell them I have to go. My sister told me about a 33-year-old woman driving down the freeway, killed by a piece of sheet metal that flew off the truck. A similar scenario has been playing in my mind since the snow started melting, and I've seen so many logging trucks on the freeway taking all the burnt-up trees off the Sierras, but I didn’t say so. My silence made them nervous, and they thought I was falling into a depression. I really just had nothing to say, and my mouth was only good at taking in food, not spitting out words.

My mouth wasn’t the only hole that couldn’t release, my butt did the same. All that food came back to torment me at 2 am when I had a stomach ache that felt like I was about to give birth. I was convinced I had appendicitis, but I must have fallen asleep and then farted out the pain because I woke up okay.  It could have been from sleeping in a sports bra. They advised me to do it, and I think it restricted all the gas in my body so it ballooned up, making me feel like I was about to explode. 

Two days after the procedure my sister asked if the doctor called with my results. I told her no, and she yelled at me to call them. After I tried to blow it off, she said, “You need to call them now. They don’t care we’re waiting, it’s not their titty.”

How could I not call after that? When I heard the results that both masses were benign I was so overjoyed and filled with gratitude. I called my sister and started crying when I told her. The tears were a surprise to me, but I had spent the two days trying so hard not to think of all the scary outcomes, I was overcome with relief. 

My kids came back the day before my birthday. Kiki said, “I am so excited 41 years old. It seems like yesterday you were 37.”

We went out to eat at a dumpling house and then came home and watched the Fabelmans before Kiki made me a cake. She gave me a sweet drawing and Geoffrey gave me six dollars, one of the dollars I gave him that morning, telling him I found it on my run. 

I went to bed that night hoping they’d come and get me, so I could sleep at the foot of their bed, like the dog. Then I thought about cars with sunroofs, and how I need to tell the kids to never stand up through a sunroof. There was a mental image, but I’ll spare you the details.

Back when I was 37

Lovin' Galore

Geoffrey was doing his homework last week and looked up proudly from his paper saying, “I need three words that end in ‘ed’ so I wrote jumped, punched, and humped.”

I almost spit out my Diet Coke, “What was that last word?”

“Humped.” He said plainly.

“Ohhh, jee wiz. Umm. OK. So, we say that word about the dog, but it’s actually a bad word, so you’re going to need to choose something different.”

I walked away grateful he mentioned the question because I don’t really check their homework unless they’re being obvious liars that they finished so they can watch TV.

I haven’t had the dog neutered, although I think he would be the perfect dog to make more of, because I’ve been too busy. Everyone in the house finds the dog humping a disgusting nuisance and we kick him off of us, except G who finds it hilarious. I’ll come in the room screaming when I see G walking around with the dog who’s twerking at the end of a Conga line.

My summer break started this week. Being a teacher is not great pay, but having summer off is like winning the lottery. I dropped twenty pounds of baggage and will take care of household things to do, like getting the dog neutered.

By the end of the semester, I was in a tangle of anxiety, and I think it’s from interacting with ninety 18-22-year-olds every day. Sounding like a northern California hippie lady, I think I absorb too much of that young adult stress, where they have the entire world in front of them, their bodies can’t even contain all of this life potential. 

I love talking with my students, we really have some good laughs, but occasionally one will come in and have a breakdown, and being forever scared of HR, I can’t give them a hug, but just try and give them verbal hugs, and reassure them, all of this is fleeting, and they will have a new set of problems in five years, hopefully, more manageable problems.

One way I can tell being around thousands of twenty-year-olds affects me is my period. I’ve always been a period interloper and jump on any woman’s cycle I talk to for five minutes, but by the end of the semester, I’m having a period every two and a half weeks. April 2023 I will forever remember as the month of PMS. My boyfriend probably thought I was on the verge of burning the house down because of how I reacted when the genius dog eats cat poop and leaves bits of it on the carpet.

If it’s not students, it's coworkers. Last semester one of my coworkers was going through a divorce. He was devastated. I could hear him sniffling as he walked up the hall and then would stand in my office doorway for an hour, unloading a mountain of drama. At first, I was interested in the authenticity, but after a while, it was a huge inconvenience because whatever work I don’t get done, I have to bring home with me to do after I pick up the kids from school.

I was listening to a lot of Zig Ziglar’s motivational speeches at the time. He gives helpful career advice, and his recommendation for dealing with the person in the office who eats all your time by having a one-sided conversation in front of you is to tell them straight up, “Go ruin someone else’s career.”

I told my mom I was going to do this and she said, “No. He might shoot you!”

I always take my mom’s advice seriously, so I just told him I’m too busy to talk, and he found someone else to listen. 

At first, I thought I could give advice. Like I was some pro-divorcee, but honestly, I don’t know anything. I had lived by the guidelines that you make your kids think their other parent is fucking awesome, the best human being alive. I think this might have some long-term problems though because, after a while, the kids must think to themselves, well if you think he’s so great why aren’t you guys together?

My daughter came out of therapy the other day and said I think it would be helpful if you told me why you and Dad got divorced. I told her I would, over the weekend. I need time to think of what to say. I suppose it could be an opportunity for me to finally use ChatGPT because I have no idea how to say this without inducing a smear campaign against the other half of her DNA.

Another problem with pretending you think their dad is the fucking shit, is you then have to pretend their partner is the shit too. One time G asked me if I knew my IQ score, and I said no, and then he let me know his step-mom is a “genius” based on her IQ score. I wanted to say, “Who’d have thought? Well, now I know whom to call if I ever need to guess the next shape in a pattern.” But instead, I cheerfully said, “How lucky for her.”

I’m a type of chess piece in the mechanics of my ex and his wife’s relationship, and it nearly made me want to beat on a cowbell with a drumstick and march the perimeter of their house chanting, “Eat shit assholes,” after I refused to go to therapy with the two of them in December so they could determine why my daughter is having such a hard time at their house. Seeing as the intention places blame on me, I naturally declined to be the third wheel at their couples therapy, and they unleashed a retaliation where I can’t pick up the kids from their house to get one-on-one time like I used to.

So, the kids and I operate as a triad, and we can’t have one-on-one trips for the time being. My daughter wanted to watch Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, but my nine-year-old son refused to go. My final bribe was that I’d give him twenty dollars and he could play his switch the whole time, and he still said no. Exhausted from negotiations, I said, “You wouldn’t even go if I offered you a million dollars.”

Of course, he said, “I would do it for a million dollars.”

I told my mom that I wanted to take Kiki to see the movie and she said, “Isn’t that about…” and then whispered, “Periods.”

Then I told my mom, periods have become a main topic of conversation in the house after my daughter’s fifth-grade assembly on pads and tampons. Lucky for my daughter, I’m having them all the time, so she excitedly runs and gets me a pad or tampon when I’m screaming from the bathroom I now understand why I felt like the entire world was crashing down on me the week before. Naturally, my son has become quite informed as well, and I was driving him to football last week, he asked me concerned, “Mom, have you ever had toxic shock syndrome?”

Instead of going to the movies, we had a movie day at home. I was feeling nostalgic and watched old James Bond movies. My brothers and sisters and I used to watch these movies until my dad would come in from work, and see his five kids lazing about and demand we go move the firewood from one side of the house to the other. I don’t know why we didn’t question the motivation for this repetitive reaction to sedentariness. 

The misogyny in the movies is horrendous, however, the villains and henchmen are quite entertaining. We started with The Spy Who Loved Me where my daughter said after seeing the female spy, “She’s so pretty, why would she want to fall in love?” 

And I thought, “Uh, have I said something to make you think that?” But, I reassured her, “Everyone wants to fall in love Kiki. It’s nice to have a partner to share your life with.”

I’m sort of the opposite of my dad and am constantly popping popcorn and refilling drinks. Kiki is my little princess child, and I have to start being more like my dad, or she is going to really need to get a partner, no matter how gorgeous she is, or she’ll starve and live in a pigsty.

Then we watched Goldfinger. The kids didn’t even bat an eye when Pussy Galore comes out of the cock pit to introduce herself to Bond. They don’t know what the word pussy is.

Hopefully, it doesn’t show up on their homework.

Hole In Sock

 

Looking at our feet, as we lay in bed, I noticed my boyfriend and I both had holes in the toe of our socks. I said something about it only mattering if you go to someone’s house who makes you take your shoes off. He made me laugh when he said, “All you can say is, ‘Sorry, I’m a piece of shit.’”

The next weekend I took my kids to an ice skating rink. With the skate rentals, I had to take my shoes off, so I planned for it. Watching the three of us on ice skates explains why driving my kids around after school and on weekends for sports is not the best use of our time. Kiki clutched the side of the rink as she walk-skated the perimeter. Lap after lap, she refused to let go. By the end of our time, there was a slight improvement, I know this because I was right behind her.

People whizzed by us. An older person caught my eye. They were pretty big too, which made them even more impressive. On our third lap, I noticed that person fell, and they were surrounded by ice skating employees. On our next lap, the employees set up cones around them, and everyone skated around this possibly concussed-broken-backed senior. The next lap, EMTs were there helping the injured person. They took off their ice skates, and as I went by, holding Kiki’s hand, I saw they had a hole in their sock.

The start of the week was unusual because I left for work without my phone. I stomached the anxiety that no one could reach me for six hours, but by the time I was in my office I remembered I could text from my laptop, so I let everyone know.

I text my older sister, “I forgot my phone at home!”

Just like Nancy Drew, she wrote back, “How are you texting me then?”

I explained modern technology, and we text-chatted. 

The very next day, I left my phone again. How I got in the habit of leaving my house without my phone surprised the shit out of me. 

I usually listen to podcasts as I inch into Sacramento on the freeway, but instead, I had to listen to NPR. After the first day, I felt pretty caught up on world news. I heard one person say, “On average, Americans check their email seventy times a day.” And I felt quite smug, as I considered myself liberated from smartphone shackles.

When I was in my office I did the same as the day before and messaged everyone from my laptop. When I initiated a chat with my sister, I made sure she knew it was me. I wrote, “I forgot my phone again! Remember that time in your apartment in Philadelphia, when I woke up in the middle of the night and shit in your kitchen garbage can?”

It must be a familial problem because she wrote back, “Hahahaha. I almost just peed my pants.”

I wanted to write back, “Sorry, I have a hole in my sock,” but the inside joke would have raised her suspicion.

I haven’t forgotten my phone since, and I’m back to being shameful instead of smug, as I repeatedly check email. I find myself checking the weather a lot. In case you’re not listening to NPR, Northern California has been under a storm for what feels like four months. Every day has a raincloud next to it.

Assuming the internet has divine knowledge, I googled “When is it going to stop raining in California?”

And she told me, “Mid-April.”

I obsessively checked the weather because of a half-marathon I signed up for after concocting my New Year’s Resolutions on January 1. I picked up my race pack in a torrential downpour, and let everyone know I was probably not going to the race the next day. They were all volunteers, standing in the freezing cold, so they gave me a look that yelled, “Fuck off,” and I left even more conflicted.

I had the suspicion that if I didn’t go to the race, the sun would miraculously come out and I’d spend the rest of my life feeling like a little bitch. Maybe not for the rest of my life, but for at least ten years. I’ve listened to too much Tony Robbins. In an interview, he said the reason he does an ice plunge every morning is not for the health benefits, but as a lesson to himself, when he says he’s going to do something, he does it.

So I amped myself up, “When I tell you to do something, you better do it.” I added some Samual Jackson flare at the end. It was a motivation barrage against myself from some part of myself that acts like it's better than myself. Very confusing.

God did me a solid, and when I checked the weather that morning, the gray clouds next to 8 am and 9 am didn’t have the usual rain slashes underneath them. I couldn’t train because of the aforementioned rain, so I was going off of two cups of coffee and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 

My runner’s high kicked in on mile four. It made the run a literal stroll down memory lane. I passed the place the kids did gymnastics as toddlers, the Embassy Suites we stayed at when my brother got married, and the dentist I went to three years ago when I had dental insurance and never went back to get my cavities filled. This reminded me to add “don’t miss open enrollment again” to my New Year’s resolutions.

Everyone was in high spirits, even the volunteers giving us our dixie cups of Gatorade. I recently watched the documentary Stutz on Netflix and had the realization while listening to Wilco’s Jesus, etc, “Jeff Tweedy must have been a Phil Stutz patient.” The high was really peaking because I shouted at myself, “EVERYONE IS A BURNING SUN.”

By mile twelve the high wore off. My resolve was strong, and I trotted along like a horse with eye patches on. When I crossed the finish line, there were crowds of people celebrating. I got my free burrito and sent a text to everyone of a picture a volunteer took of me holding my medal. They gave me some of God’s money.

Back home I kicked off my shoes and looked at my feet. As I crossed this off my New Year's resolutions list, my inner voice and Samual Jackson proclaimed, “You don’t have holes in your socks, motherfucker.”

Then I limped to the kitchen and took Tylenol because I told myself to.