Yesterday a friend posted, “My life is so much more interesting inside my head.” I giggled and thought how true and then I stopped laughing and thought, So. Not. True.
Currently real life is pretty darn intersting, but just to show you that I’m capable of writing about something other than the big “D”, or “him” (and I mean “him” as in the father of my children not Him as in capital H-i-m; did you catch that? How cool am I that I know a Katy Perry song or wait, was it Brittany?) Where was I?
Oh right, showing you that I can write without using the word divorce and without any anger, sarcasm or sadness (well, the sarcasm might be hard) but I’m feeling pretty confident about the others. So here goes.
A day in the life (7 hours on a Thursday, to be precise….)
First, the bank. I have a fear of banks. It’s kind of like getting your car tags for the first time. You’re always missing something. Last summer it took me five trips to the clerk’s office; two trips to the police station and three phone calls to the Sioux Falls Credit Union before I was handed Nebraska plates. All I want to do is cash a check. I also want to know the balance on my account because the computer keeps shutting me out and while I don’t balance to the penny, I do try to keep a running number in my head because sometimes, well, the number runs lower than it should and then I have to call my friend Jennifer who works, you know, at the bank.
Anyway, I hand her the check and my driver’s license. She smiles. She leaves. She comes back.
“Ma’am, this check is made out to Myrna Hale and your driver’s license says Myra Katherine Fritz.”
“Oh, sorry. I’m getting divorced. But it actually says Myra Hale.” I have enough names to worry about without adding Myrna to the mix. (And just to be clear that mention of the “D” word doesn’t count here. It was an important part of the story).
“Well, if you’re taking your maiden name you should really get a new driver’s license.” Right, OK. Thanks.
She smiles. She leaves. She comes back.
“Ma’am the address on your checks say Nebraska; the address on your account says Arizona and the address on your driver’s license says South Dakota.”
“Uhm, yeah, actually that’s Arkansas not Arizona and that’s a mistake and we moved from South Dakota but now I live in Nebraska.”
She smiles. She leaves. She, you know, comes back.
“About your balance. Ma’am, there seems to be three accounts; one with your name first, one with your husband’s name first and one with just your name. Do you know which one it is?”
“Hmmm, I guessing the one with least amount of money.”
And now I’m finished at the bank and all I can think about is that my driver’s license is expiring in less than two weeks and I’ll probably have to take a test and they’re probably going to want my social security card but it’s in a cornfield in Southeastern South Dakota (and I’m actually not kidding about that), and do you think they’ll let me put Hale instead of Fritz so that I don’t have to come back again in two months?
Yeah, I didn’t think so.
Next stop, music therapy. Emma Claire is coming along because the truth is they love her more than they love me and Emma Claire says, “Mom! I have a great idea! Let’s bring Tiger.”
And she’s three and there are other therapy dogs at the manor and why wouldn’t that be a great idea so I say yes! Let’s bring Tiger. I don’t know what I was expecting or why I thought this would end well but I was wrong. Half way through my session, a nurse comes running in to tell me that Tiger has gotten outside and is headed up Clarkson street toward one of the busiest intersections in Fremont.
Not really such a great idea, Emma Claire.
Next stop, Hy Vee. The Colorado peaches are here. They aren’t southern peaches but they’re the best we can get. I walk in and there’s a sign. 99 cents for a pound or $15.99 for a lug. I call the produce guy over and I said “OK, is this a trick? Am I supposed to think that buying in bulk is a better deal when really it’s like $2.99 a pound or something?”
He looks at me like I’m Steve Martin from Father of the Bride going nuts-o over the hot dog buns and I decide to just take the lug and be on my way. Then I run into a Y-buddy.
“Look at all those peaches! Looks like someone’s gonna be doing some baking!” She says in a sing-songy voice.
Uhm, ok. I was actually thinking I would just eat them, but whatever. Is that what you do when you turn 40? Start making pies?
Next to my peaches there are 12 breakfast cookies. I’m checking out when a woman walks over and says to the checker quietly, “Man, she must really like those because she’s always buying them.”
Hello. I’m right here. I can hear you. And “always” is a little harsh….try every 12 days.
“Do you eat them every morning?”
“Yes. I toast them.” (Not exactly sure why I felt the need to add the bit about toasting.)
“With coffee or tea?
“No, just diet coke.”
“Oh. Well they say that one-a-day’s OK.”
One a day. Yes. Let’s just go with that.
And we come home and Emma Claire sets up a karaoke band in the neighbor’s garage and Tiger walks around sheepishly knowing he has fallen from my good graces and I eat a peach and we watch the clock tick-tock past and we wait for Coulter to get home from school and I just smile.
I smile in the knowledge that my life is way more interesting than what’s in my head; it’s better and harder and fuller and scarier and this I know, that God’s plans are so much bigger than the ones I have for myself and He is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think (Ephesians 3:20) and I smile knowing that, Lord willing, tomorrow morning I will wake up little ones and bring out the “I am special today” plate because Coulter doesn’t seem to understand that it’s for special occasions, but then I guess every morning is special and I’ll watch them eat, all sleepy with crazy bed hair, and I’ll toast my cookie and drink my diet coke of the day and I will breathe a sweet, sweet prayer of thanks for this very interesting life.