1.35 AM. The line from the Springsteen song “I’m On Fire”: at night I wake up and the sheets soaking wet and a freight train’s running through the middle of my head…Yes. That’s it. I have some WTF questions. I am sad. I call. The phone is off. TFG.
6.18 AM. I pack. I pack life jackets. I pack bathing suits. I pack floating acoutrements and sunscreen and various children’s recreational items which is to say I pack way too fucking much. That’s what I pack. And then a little more. I pack and sequester the Very Important Stuff: emergency high heels, laptop, cell phone, various cables, notebook, favourite pen (thanks Uncle Terry), beauty supplies, hair straightener. Then I return to the Barbie suitcase brigade.
7.23 AM. No e-mail from the man who wounded me grievously. (Exaggeration, thou art my new love.) Apparently the freight train is only running through my head. I unplug the computer so that I can stop with the incessant e-mail checking.
8.06 AM. I am dressed! I am ready for an outdoor, tres sportif vacance! I am wearing running shoes! A t-shirt! A skort! A ponytail!
9.14 AM. I go to pick up the children from their sleep-over at Daddy’s house. They are not ready. Rather than bitch and stew and shoot their father petulant, poisonous looks (which is of course my natural inclination because I’m all evolved like that), I suggest that I go have a coffee and return at 10 AM at which time THEY WILL BE READY, RIGHT? Yes, they will be and apparently I should bring him a coffee too. Yeah, that’s going to happen.
9.48 AM. I am feeling uneasy. I’m drinking coffee and then holy shit newsflash lightning bolt. I have forgotten the lifelines. The Very Important Things That Must Not Be Forgotten. I have forgotten them.
Who is this sporty, running shoe/ponytail wearing bitch? The alternate, imaginary Kelly? She has only existed for one hour and 42 minutes, so she can’t possibly need a vacation. The stressed out, whipsawed by romantic confusion, high heels-wearing, Cleopatra-bob-sporting, laptop-toting Kelly – that’s who I need to take on vacation. And in order for her to go on vacation, the flat iron and the laptop must be included. I hate this new outdoor Kelly. She’s malicious.
I go home and fetch the bag of manna from heaven. Then I stop at Shoppers Drug Mart for necessary unnecessary beauty supplies. I am who I am.
And oh yes, I brought him a coffee. And the girls were ready.
Onward!
10.25 AM. “You look…sporty?” says my sister with a furrowed brow.
Line-ups and boats and water and five hours and a listless burger later…
Meg Ryan, I’m stealing your scene but it is real, so verrrrrrrrrrry real.
For the record, I think you looked really cute in your sporty garb. I just have never seen it before. I do love how you couldn’t forgo the straight iron while on vacation where the only people with you are your children and parents. They love you no matter the state of you hair. I love you for your gloriously straight dark hair. As I attempt to tame the birds nest attached to my scalp, I curse my sister with the smooth glossy bob.
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