Day 100: Until I get to know my new neighborhood better, this is the coffee shop with the garden where I’ll sip and write. I’ll try it on for size come Sunday, my first full day as a Washingtonian.
I dropped off Mom at the airport this morning. I wanted her to stay a few more days. Help me settle in at my new place. Hell, help me pull off this move. I survived four years of a horrid divorce, losing my beloved job and teeth, crippling depression and RA pain, knee replacement surgery, sinking debt, and losing $100,000 on a house the ex left me in to maintain and sell on my own. Packing up a tiny apartment for Saturday’s move should be child’s play in comparison.
And yet I sense the stifled yawn of to-be-witnessed failure from those watching, waiting behind me. Snide asides of “Can she pull it off?” and “How will she fuck it up this time?” Placing bets on my backslide. Yes, I called Mom “Mommy” at times this week. Parents say no matter how old their children, they still call them kids. And no matter how strong and confident I’ve grown, I still want my mommy sometimes. I was lucky to have her these seven days.
As for the nasty remarks and baited breaths set to sigh, “I told you so” from the shadows, they can fuck off. Bullying the scared kid in me–pathetic. I don’t know what the future holds. That I’m here (soon to be there), think I’m OK, and desire a future are huge accomplishments.
Bigger still, I shaved my legs. If that’s not optimism, I don’t know what is.