The House That Jack Built

As I wait for the single-serve coffee to brew in the black mug on the hotel dresser, I reflect on how my life has become a nursery rhyme.

This is the room that i rented because I couldn’t ride transit to the station and fly home; this is the suitcase that I had to buy because I had to bring a computer because the cord could not be located so I could use the laptop at home.

Not a perfect analogy but eventually you get to the mellow glass of Old Vine Zin  that I drank; and the slice of flourless chocolate cake that I ate when I found myself alone in the hotel room that I had to rent. . .And these are the twitchy legs that kept me awake in the hotel room that I had to rent. . .

I enjoyed the wine, and the cake; but a present and aware companion might have reminded me of what white sugar does to a damaged CNS system.  He or she might have given voice to my neurologist’s admonishments.  He says, If white sugar were discovered today, it would be a controlled substance.  No cautionary voice sounded from across the table.  The waiter brought both delightful indulgences, unaware that I’d already blown the budget, oblivious to the folly, thinking only of his tip.

He penned at the bottom of the ticket:  “20% =. . .”  He’d botched my order and resisted re-doing the plate.  He never offered to re-fill my coffee.  He stood ten feet away and moaned to a co-worker about having to work the weekend.  I gave him 15% and felt generous.

I’m not complaining about my restless night or the dreams which flooded my brain.  I alone, with full knowledge of its potential impact, ordered my dinner.  With further awareness, I chose to binge-watch Youtube videos of my favorite poignant songs.  Now the traffic tells me that the hour of departure approaches.  Breakfast starts at six.  I’ll board a shuttle at 7:30.  By eleven, I will be homeward bound.  i have not yet decided how I feel about this trip.  Time will tell.

It’s the nineteenth day of the forty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.


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