I did a quick run to the bookstore on Saturday to grab the October issue of the puzzle books I use. Laugh if you will, but word finds are vital to my current summer routine and psychological peace of mind. They help me with writer’s block, keep me off my phone, and give me something to surreptitiously turn to when I have a rare down moment at work.
Most significantly, they help me, for however briefly, forget about travel. About the fact that I can’t travel. Not until October.
(This next part is when I sound like a spoiled, whiny brat with First World problems).
Part of me dies when I can’t travel. I can feel it slowly corroding away my happiness and peace like acid through flesh. The fact that I traveled to Florida and Arizona in the spring is already a faint travel memory. I miss Maine, and Utah, and Colorado, and Wyoming, not to mention Alaska, Canada, Iceland and London.
But for now I’m stuck, until October. Remaining in New Jersey for the entire summer as a dutiful daughter and mom is, of course, something I know I need to do.
But that don’t make it easy. There are days when I wake up and want to scream in frustration.
(Ok I’m done)
So I’m throwing myself, my whole self, into work. And I’m happy for it. Grateful, even. But the slow trudge of the Universe as it limps its way to delivering me the life I am going for feels like a maddeningly slow fucking journey.
On Saturday, as I drove in summer tourist traffic, I once again addressed the Universe.
“Yo, what the hell is going on up there? I’m putting in the work, can you throw me a bone?”
Twenty minutes later, I dug up said bone. Tune in Friday for the conclusion.