Losing My Edge

Litquake 2016 The Head and the Heart, As Reviewed B...

Losing My Edge

The other day there were some frozen carrots defrosting on our kitchen countertop. The problem is, these were not of the freezer-section-bag-of-carrots variety. They were fresh carrots, normally stored in the ‘fridge, that someone had absentmindedly stuck in the freezer instead. Do you know what happens when fresh carrots are frozen and then thawed? They gain a rubbery consistency. You could staple the unfrozen carrot end to the carrot top and make a cute DIY artisanal vegan bracelet to complement your hemp jumpsuit and Jersusalem cruisers.

As the carrots lay there in a puddle of their own fluids, my family engaged in what my friend Ted says is the critical first step in any crisis: assigning blame. My husband pointed at my daughter, she pointed back at him, and I stood in the corner with my head down thinking, “Don’t look at me, don’t look at me, don’t look at me.”

Because, my friends, I have completely lost my edge this fall.

There are plenty of things to which I could assign the blame. Dad’s death, my daughter heading to college, the current presidential election, planetary alignment, my advancing decrepitude. It doesn’t really matter, though. The outcome is that in arenas where I was once razor-sharp, like complicated travel planning and household management and interpersonal communications, I am now as sharp a butter knife that’s spent too many nights in the sandbox as a kids’ digging toy.

My college daughter texted me to ask what I thought she should do with her spare day in Philadelphia en route back to her school after Thanksgiving break. “What do you mean?” I asked, mystified. “I booked you on the red eye the Saturday night after Thanksgiving, so you get into Philly Sunday morning in time for the shuttle bus back to campus.” Except that I didn’t. I interpreted 12:20 am Saturday as “in the middle of Saturday night” not “in the middle of Friday night.” So I am basically stranding my darling daughter in Philly for 24 hours, because I can no longer understand clocks. Thank the Baby Cheeses for my college roommate who lives in Philly and has offered to host my child for a day.

Then there’s my initiative to freshen up the home décor this fall, in compensation for what appears to be our permanent dogless state going forward. If I can’t have a dog, at least I can have a house I wouldn’t want a dog to wreck, anyway.

So I marched off with all the tired and outdated cushions on our kitchen window seat to an upholsterer whose store is, quite literally, underneath Highway 880 in Oakland (nickname: “The Great Western Molar Shaker.”) There was construction on all sides. so that I had to pull a European Vacation-style circuit past the shop without actually getting there, only instead of “There’s Big Ben!” it was “There’s the FoodMax!” When I did finally park, I found a sign on the front door of the shop that says, “Robbers, bring ID. So we can notify the next of kin,” underneath a stencil of a gun aiming at me. It’s not a neighborhood where I hang out much. After choosing new fabric with the (surprisingly considering their signage) warm and friendly couple who run the place, I went out to bring in all the bench cushions and pillows.

Oh wait, no. Not ALL the cushions. I left two at home! Why? So I’d have a reason to drive underneath the highway and do laps past the FoodMax again, I guess, at some other future inconvenient time.

If this were the Rapture, these are the sinner pillows.

And so it goes. I was en route to the Squeeze concert last week when my friend texted to ask if I was picking up our CSA box delivery in Oakland, an errand that she and I have alternated every week since forever. “Um, no, because I am an idiot, and furthermore I’m an idiot in San Francisco,” I texted back. I saw a sweet young mom on my street from afar on Tuesday, walking toward me. “Hi there!” I yelled. “When’s the baby due, again?”

“She was born last Tuesday,” she answered.

via GIPHY

The only comfort I have is seeing my friends, approximately the same age and stage of life, in the same fog – some might call it Schadenfreude, but I call it Beruhigungfreude (that’s Reassurance-Joy.) A friend in Toronto took her two teenagers on a road trip to visit colleges on both sides of the border at the end of August, only to realize partway through the trip that one of her kids was going to miss her first day of school. Her husband had to drive down from Canada to grab his daughter and hustle her back north.

I ran into another friend in the grocery store on Sunday as she stood staring at the display of plums. I called her name and she looked up, startled. “I forgot round challah,” she said by way of greeting. “It’s almost Rosh Hashanah and I just…forgot it.” Hello to you too!

Both these women are among the most smart, organized, and clever people I know. If they’re misreading school calendars and zoning out by the stone fruit, then it’s definitely not my fault that I left my fancy mobile phone charger in a hotel room last weekend.

Just in case anyone is looking to assign blame.

I probably don’t need much help with this, btw.