The owner of the restaurant walked ten paces ahead of me on the hiking trail. I’ve been to her establishment many times. She’s like a surrogate mother to a group of Asian college students in our town. On her stove, piping-hot, scorchingly-spicy soups brew only for them. If you’ve visited that part of the world and love intense heat, you can ask for an order. But then you can forget it, because you’re not getting any. She’s only cooked so much, and those who are a globe away from home need the flavors more than you do. As someone who’s traveled a little, I can respect that. The problem is, she won’t man-up and admit it. Instead, she says she’s out, then serves up a bowl to the next guy in line.
I noticed her workout clothes on the trail, which were stylish, like mine. The most fashionable aspect was that they weren’t workout clothes at all, but rather an outfit one might wear to a flute-and-guitar-scored Newman Center mass: pressed khakis, a floral print blouse, and running shoes. Once, a friend accused me of dressing like Katherine Hepburn when I run, which I tried to Wiki-pedia because I didn’t know what she meant. Had this friend been along on the trail, I would’ve suggested she take up her clever comparison with the soup lady.
Soup and clothes–these are just some of the things I need to let go of. When I wait in the car for the light to change, I see weeds growing tall in the concrete median and say to myself, “Do not pull, Coco, keep the door closed.” It helps if I use my police voice.
Some years ago, my friend Connie, the Katherine Hepburn wise-cracker, asked, “What are you doing for your birthday?” Only she could so deftly expose one of my worst defects: an undeveloped fun gene. “I don’t know,” I fumbled. “Well, what do you want to do for your birthday?” she pressed. “Uh…putt-putt and delivery pizza?” Thank goodness I’d spied a mini-golf course across the street while trying not to pull weeds.
A week later when my birthday arrived, seven of my friends and I used rainbow putters to knock balls between giraffe legs. I looked around the course in amazement. Someone fun created this whole place, I thought, down to the tinny REO songs piping from rock speakers. Over by the mini-windmill, Connie gave me a thumbs-up. I had to get out of there.
Work is what I know. A month ago, I spread nine cubic yards of mulch in less than twelve hours. My only breaks were to make family meals and referee kickball games. “You are the workingest little woman I’ve ever seen,” an elderly neighbor called to me as she drove by. My kids followed with “Mom, can we pleeeeeease go somewhere?” Hour eight of my mulch-a-thon was closing in. “Later we’ll do something fun,” I offered feebly. Then I panicked about what that something would be. A park romp? Connect Four?
Maybe we’d go to the Asian restaurant. I looked down at my right foot, which I pitchforked this time last year doing the same chore. Hot swelling and Keflex ensued. For some reason, the memory made me think of the woman stirring the pot, her face dewy and drawn. Neither of us is fun. And both of us are trying to take care of our children.
I concluded about ten years ago that for me, as was definitely true for many of my ancestors, “work” = “fun.” I paint rooms, repair window sills, stoops, and floors, plant and weed gardens, etc., on my paid “staycations.” I find it to be relaxing. Work is what I know AND what I love.
Mmmm, spicy Asian broth. Could you make it at home in the crockpot? Soup is good food!