I stop in my tracks when I come to the corner where the beat up old camper is for sale.
It’s seen better days. The siding is mismatched and missing in some spots from rusting away. Once again I picture how great it would be with a makeover for my business.
It would be impulsive to buy this thing. I don’t even know if this whole idea will go anywhere because perfectionism tends to slow me down.
My impulsivity feels like a blessing and a curse because my brain operates on two timelines:right nowandnot right now.
When I have strong urges to do something, it has to be then and there to satisfy myself. On the other hand, when I lose interest or am feeling overwhelmed, it goes firmly in the back of my mind to wait until later, if it comes at all.
My mind screams at meright now, right now, right fucking now.
Screw it. I have a decent amount saved up from tips, and I’ve heard it from my friends, my family, and people all over town countless times that the creations I craft are good enough to sell. Then they all turn around and warn me off when I feel like charging into something because I’m gripped by an idea.
This could be my chance to take the next step in my life. I've been floundering since I graduated from Heston U. Am I goingto remain a bartender forever, or am I going to have the guts to chase my dreams?
I don’t want anything to hold me back.
Without giving myself time to chicken out, I text the number on the sale sign. The owner answers eagerly, more glad than anything to have someone take it off his hands. He agrees to come by the bar next week to make the sale and lets me know I can pick it up whenever I want.
A giddy squeal bursts free. I do a little happy dance, laughing when a passing car honks. I wave, recognizing Mr. Boucher and his son Theo that plays on the hockey team. His daughter Lainey is probably in the back with her nose in a book.
“Hi! Happy Thanksgiving!” I shout.
They give the horn a few more taps and drive on. I feel much better on my way home.
There’s nothing I can do about Shawn cheating on me. We’re over. I just want to move on and not think about him anymore. Fuck him very much. I hope he has an exceptionally mediocre life that brings him no fulfillment whatsoever.
And me? I’m going to strive for no bad days.
It’s almost noon when I get home. I was only gone for a little over an hour, tops, but Mom’s transformed the house.
A fir garland winds around the banister on the staircase dotted with frost-tipped fake leaves and a string of lights. The pinecone animals that decorated the mantel in the living room have been replaced with tapered candles and her bottlebrush tree collection.
This is nothing compared to how it will be by this weekend. Only some of her numerous boxes that house her holiday decorhave been pulled out. She loves the winter season and Christmas most of all. Usually her decorations go up on November 1st, adorning every room in the house with a seasonal touch that doesn’t come down until well into January.
Mom loves the holidays so much that she ended up with me, her Christmas baby. Well, I was meant to be born on Christmas Eve, but I didn’t arrive until December 31st. Either way, it’s why they named me Eve. Dad teases both of us for my stubbornness about Mom’s plans from the start.
Cheerful instrumental carols play softly throughout the house, getting louder as I approach the kitchen.
“You’ve been busy.”
She pops up from checking on the turkey. “There you are!”
“What can I help with?” I shrug out of Dad’s utility coat and drape it on the hook where he keeps it through winter.
“The food’s all cooking. Thanks for making the mashed potatoes this morning.” She gestures for me to follow her into the front room. “Look what I got for your door.”
After rummaging through the boxes, she presents me with a wreath. It’s smaller than the huge one she puts out every year with a sheer gold ribbon woven around it and tied with a big bow at the bottom.
She fluffs the pine branches, grinning joyfully. “Isn’t it so cute? It reminded me of you since you’re always tying ribbons in your hair. They came in a three pack and I had to have them. I’m sending your brother and Jess home with one, too.”
At my poorly contained amusement, she jumps in before I make a comment. “Don’t start. You’re my snow angel baby. You know how I get.”
“I do, and I love you for it.”
“Good. Take this for your bathroom, too. I put a set in all of ours.”
She hands me a couple of decorative hand towels and a battery operated tea light in a silver votive with tree shaped cut outs.
