Pre- and Post-Power Outage

July 27

The ice cream truck has been coming around my neighborhood a few nights a week. My husband is usually the one to sound the alarm, “Lynn! Lynn! It’s coming!” The two of us get very excited about the ice cream truck. It’s a race to see who can get out the door first. Like little children, my husband is sometimes too shy to approach the truck and makes me order for him, and the last few times they’ve been out of my favorite--toasted almond—and I’ve pouted.

Yesterday, my nice neighbor Dennis and I happened to be at our mailboxes when the truck came by at 6pm. He flagged it down and got me a chocolate éclair. I teased him, saying I couldn’t remember the last time a man bought me dinner. 

July 28

It’s been so hot, and I have so few summer clothes, I’ve been wearing the same two sundresses over and over, for what feels like months. My husband, who never notices anything, commented, “Didn’t you wear that yesterday? And the day before?” I told him I’m like his idol Steve Jobs who wore the same thing every day; except I’m pretty sure Steve didn’t buy his garb at Forever21.

July 29

I have been listening to Taylor Swift’s new album, trying to decide if I like it. I did learn some of the songs on my guitar.

The ice cream truck, my juniors’ department clothes, and Taylor Swift: I feel like Benjamin Button.

August 4-9:

The storm that uprooted trees and downed wires caused my family to lose its sanity and civility. The branches couldn’t take the stress, and neither could we. It had been a long time since we fought with such ferocity. I don’t remember ever bawling the way I bawled this week. It felt cathartic though, to howl.

I’m an atheist generally, but when that storm blew through so severely, and the sun came out about two hours later, I asked out loud, “WHY!?” I looked at the sky and yelled again, “WHY?! What was the fucking point?!” Suddenly it was all God’s fault. Everything. All of it. This wasn’t the Get Goldman Office. This was up the chain of command by several levels.

I spent the next five days like this:

1. Curled up like a shrimp on the living room floor, crying.
2. Leaning against the kitchen cabinets, sobbing.
3. Tossing and turning in the guest bedroom, wondering if I would ever want to sleep next to anyone ever again.
4. Sitting at my desk, staring at the giant tree that fell three feet from my window, and thinking, “Well, it could have been worse.”
5. Walking red-eyed and zombie-like around the neighborhood, with my head on a swivel.

On Sunday afternoon I turned to silent prayer.

“Please. Please. I don’t know what else to say. It’s enough already. We’ve all had Enough.” I was sitting with my hands clasped into my forehead and my eyes shut. My husband chose this auspicious moment to ask me what the dinner plan was, at which point I converted from atheist to nihilist.

Twelve hours later, the power was restored. I’m sure I, and God, had nothing to do with it, but the relief was immense regardless.