A Humongous Hamburger

And what happens when I give myself too much time to write... *Chapter 74*

Impossible to start this week’s essay without acknowledging my friends in Los Angeles. I spent eight years of my life there. It’s a new kind of horror to watch a place you know so well go up in flames. My heart breaks for families who’ve lost everything. I truly cannot fathom staring up at the mountain of ‘what do we do now’ from the ground covered in ashes.

The very least I can do is share these links I’ve found helpful. This list from the LA Times provides links for organizations to send donations. Even better, this GoFundMe page has been created, taking you directly to the families in need of help. It seems the power of donating directly to individuals may be the best and quickest way to make an impact.

I believe in community, in taking care of each other as best we can, in the power of prayer. I am devastated for LA but grateful for the safety of the people I love dearly.

Strolling Santa Monica, by Bonnie Lynn Felton, lynnfelton.com

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In fifth grade, Chad and Kyle, two very mean boys, wrote an alliterative poem about our class. “Ashley is awesome, Taylor is terrific, Caroline is cool,” and then to me, “Brittany ate a humongous hamburger.” A few things struck my 10 year old brain. First of all, oh my god, everyone is looking at how fat I am. Second of all, neither humongous nor hamburger start with ‘B’ you absolute idiots.

Most of my memories from the ages of 8-14 exist because they meteorically crashed into my forming brain through mortification. I was tall, solidly tall, not the lanky kind. I went both up and out for the majority of my pre-adolescence and this was fodder for the little asshats intent on hiding their own insecurities by highlighting those of others.

Don’t feel bad for me. What I’ve always had working in my favor is a grandmotherly wisdom. I knew how stupid and downright mean these children were. While I was crushed with embarrassment, I was still able to tell myself, “you jerks are peaking at 12 years old, how absolutely sad for the rest of your loser lives.” And I was right.

How savage.

I passed a lot of time trapped in childhood, laying on the floor of my bedroom, staring at the fan. I’d hypnotize myself following one blade around and around and around until I felt like I’d pass out. Thirty-two. I fantasized about being 32. No clarity around what that age would bring, it simply indicated that I definitely was NOT a child or teenager any longer and, to my younger self, that’s all that mattered.

I remember after a particularly painful lunch period, walking in line back to class. As I passed through the rotunda near the school office, sunlight shone down through the skylight windows and I had the distinct thought, “you’re going to be okay.” I remember it as clearly as I can see my own reflection when I look in the mirror. Time will pass. You will get older. None of this will matter someday.

It’s weird. I started working on this essay three days ago. In my fantasy world, this is how I structure my writing week. Plenty of time to thoughtfully finish my pieces so I can bring you my well-rounded stories. Wow. What bullshit. Wrapping this up has been like pulling my own teeth out of my head. I’ve given myself TOO much time to think about this.

Alan and I are currently in the Blue Ridge mountains celebrating 3 years together. Our lovely AirBnb hosts allowed us to drive up two days early to beat the impending snow storm that hit Georgia early Friday morning. We arrived at midnight and opened our eyes to a snow globe world. Completely magical.

And yet, I’ve woken up everyday with a heavy sense of unease. The speed and depth with which your entire life can change, quite literally go up in flames, weighs heavily on my conscience. It makes me wonder the point of setting goals or getting excited for a future that can be altered SO quickly.

For whatever reason, it’s got me thinking of that fucking humongous hamburger. A time in my life I thought would NEVER end but did. Thirty-two has come and gone and I am in a cabin with the love of my life with so much to be grateful for.

I cannot fathom what it feels like to live through a tragedy the magnitude of what LA is facing or Asheville or Gaza. Atrocities happening all over the world, all the time. Pain relative to each individual. And I’m sitting here, struggling to write an essay that I hope resonates in some way for a few of you? I don’t know.

But also maybe, simply, yeah.

Maybe. Simply. Because I have the wherewithal, a sometimes-working computer and thoughts that like to spill out through my fingers and onto a screen. Because I do believe that connection and communication, understanding and getting to know each other better is paramount to our survival and our healing. Maybe nothing profound need be imparted. Maybe sharing is quite simply enough.

My heart has never felt heavier and lighter all at the same time. We’re in this together. And while I feel fraudulent saying something broad and hopeful as so much of the world continues to suffer, it nevertheless rings true. Take care of yourselves and the people around you as best you can and try to take no good moment for granted.

Time will pass. We will be okay. I will never lose hope and I will never give myself this much time to “craft” an essay again. I am thinking of you and holding up my light as high as I can.

READING

I found this essay by

Haley Nahman

thought provoking and poignant. A good comment section as well.

WATCHING

We rewatched The Menu while on our getaway. It’s better the second time knowing what’s coming. What a fucked up and darkly hilarious comment on chef and restaurant culture. Lol.

LISTENING

Unreasonable Hospitality. Alan has never read this so we are listening to the audiobook on our drive to and from Blue Ridge. Wow. What appreciation it reminds me to have for the privilege to serve someone the best night of their lives. Selfishly reminded me of my own essay, A Thousand Dollar Tip.

Several valuable lessons have been driven home this week. 1. Procrastination works wonders for my writing. 2. Live in the moment, it’s all that exists. 3. Enjoy what you have, take nothing for granted. A hot shower and a roof over your head are worth more than a million dollars.

Most importantly, the people we’re in contact with, whether physically, virtually or spiritually, each other and Mother Nature are all that matter. Taking care of Her and each other. Nothing else matters. I am showering you with my love. Thank you for taking the time to connect.