Self Stew

I notice a white globule substance floating in the bath.

“Oh crap. What kind of fresh hell of a vaginal infection is this?” I think in a panic. I scoop up a glob in my hand. I mush it between my fingers. I lift it to my face to smell it. It smells sweet.

It’s frosting.

I have been eating cake-a snickerdoodle bundt cake to be exact—in the bathtub watching Bridgerton for two hours. At some point, a morsel must have fallen off the fork on the way to my mouth.

I tilt my head back and laugh so hard and so long I have to dry my hands and rewind the episode.

It’s day three of my self-imposed mom-cation™ at an airbnb in Savannah, Georgia. I picked this place on purpose solely for the large claw-foot bathtub I’ve been making Meagen soup in three times a day. I don’t have bathtub that will accommodate a six foot person at my house and felt that soaking in a hot bath alone would be restorative. It helps that it is cold. 32 degrees outside currently, so the warm bath soaks away the bone chill I got walking through the city today looking for bath salts.

My agenda for this time away is as follows: Wake when I want. Eat what I want when I want. Write every day. Bathe. As many times as necessary. Remember who I am.

When I only have myself to worry about, it occurs to me just how many jobs I have. Furthermore, how many jobs I have taken on voluntarily without anyone asking. After 281 days at home quarantined with my husband and two sons while working full-time and running a home virtual school, I have several occupations to maintain. Every single day, it feels like I arrange my needs, wants and goals around other people. What time I wake up. When I eat. What I eat. How much work I get done. What kind of work I get done.

Then there is the entire sub-category involving food. What do we have? What do we need? What is for (insert meal here)? What time is it now and how long until (insert meal here)? What needs to be cleaned out from the fridge or used before it rots (it’s always the spinach)? Meal plans, grocery lists, grocery orders. Now that the kids are back at in-person school (there are no good choices here homeschool, virtual, in-person, asynchronous—all with compromises), are the kids uniforms clean, masks and water bottles clean? Are they washing their hands enough? Do they have enough masks? Constant background worry about their psychological health and learning difficulties.

Which member of my extended family will suffer a health crisis today?

Am I doing enough to combat racism and discrimination?

Is our democracy going to collapse? Maybe I should learn how to shoot a gun.

It’s like running a browser window with 1000 tabs all loading videos with hidden jump scares.

I think of David Sedaris and his long walks to pick up trash in the countryside after he finishes writing for the day. Would David avoid writing? Would he throw his hands up in the air exclaiming, “I can’t write! There’s too much trash to pick up!”

He chooses to pick up the trash every day. It’s not his job or obligation.

I need to choose my jobs better. Because the truth is, I use all of my jobs and responsibilities and obligations to avoid writing. Avoid actually connecting with my family. Avoid discomfort. Avoid output.

So here I am. Avoiding avoidance.

I’m home now. The kids woke with an agenda to go to the skate park. Their father took them, and I’m here at my computer typing away. Giving to me first.

I’ll be right back. I just need to put the laundry in the dryer.