And so it begins. A shopping trip to Walmart for my Thanksgiving preparations (?!). The place is a zoo, and within ten minutes, I run in to at least ten people who ask me why I’m not yet gone from here: from Missouri, from this place I prepared to leave a year (or ten) ago.
The idea of a Thanksgiving weekend is a misnomer to me, to say the least. I will be spending it alone, as I have for the past three years (or more, depending on how I choose to look at it, the Damien-years notwithstanding). My shopping list includes: wine (one box only; as I much as I am expecting a need to smother my emotions, I will try not to over-indulge); pizza (in all of its many always-less-than-satisfying-forms: frozen cheese-only variety as a palette for my own healthy-ish toppings of veggies and pineapple, versus a sat-fat meat-laden variety for convenience and indulgence sake, versus deli-“fresh,” not to mention the various brand/sauce/crust optons, depending on my sauce preference at the actual time of eating. It really is an exhausting and guilt-laden experience, exacerbated by my wonder at what the cashier-who-used-to-envy-my-healthy-shopping-cart thinks, as she surreptitiously glances at my only-I-can-see thicker waist and thighs. And that doesn’t even include the occasional carryout/delivery-damn-it-I-deserve-it-but-I-can’t-afford-it-option. To where has my will power and self-empowerment vanished, I wonder?)
Also on the shopping list: canned goods, cheese [fake-ish stuff ‘cuz I can’t afford the real stuff], brown (!) rice, frozen veggies (!) and a ridiculously small assortment of fresh food, including potatoes and onions and tomatoes. No lettuce. (When did I stop eating salads?). The processed-foods list is, thankfully, not too much longer than the fresh(ish) list, but I’m really not very impressed with myself. I just want out of here (Walmart, Missouri, my head). I want to go home (to New Mexico, to my heart, to my soul, to my family, to me). I also need cat food, and there is a ridiculously long list of home improvement-type items, but I’m not spending money on any of that.
Because Gary might call and say he will buy my house. “I’ll let you know in a few days,” he said last Saturday.
My four-day-weekend to-do list is as equally tumultuous as my what-shall-I-eat list. It’s a repeat of a-four-day-Thanksgiving-weekend a year ago: packing, purging, preparation to move. All moot, unless Gary calls and gives me a holiday miracle.
My people (?) here say, "Please don't go."
My other people (the ones who know me and love me and wish me to be happy, happier than I can even imagine for myself...the people who are my very lifeline) say, “Just go. Just leave. Let it all go, walk away.”
While I appreciate the sentiment, I am determined to make it right this time. Or at the very least, to give it my very best effort. And I am so dreading the guaranteed heartbreak and stress, again. The heartbreak and stress I went through already, precisely a year ago (and once before, fifteen years ago). Temporary, yes, but real, nonetheless.
Change is good and I am -- without doubt -- in need of change. But, I am having an incredibly hard time focusing on my brand new future, because my bland old present refuses to let go of me. Meanwhile, I feel am withering on the vine, like a rotten tomato, like an over-ripe grape, past its prime for a good wine. Ironic.
It’s not Thanksgiving for me. It’s Ground Hog’s Day (wake, weep, repeat). That’s ironic, too, in its own twisted way.
And yet, I know I will survive. (That, for sure, is more a cerebral statement than a soulful statement, but I have more control over my cerebellum than I do my soul, so I’ll take it.) I just need to talk about it. Thanks for listening. Hold your applause! More to come. (Lucky you. J