The urge to wash my vehicle when I’m about to leave it in long-term parking at an airport is illogical, is it not?
Or when it’s about to rain for days? (No sense.)
Or when I’m about to drive more than two towns away? (Again, logic?)
It’s harvest time in Indiana. Dust abounds from the crops coming out of too-dry dirt to the point of not being able to roll your windows down. I’m picking up people out in the county, down rural roads. Where crops happen. Then heading to the city. It’ll get filthy again. Quickly. It would make more sense to wait until I get back.
But I don’t want my travel buddies for the Writer’s Digest conference in Cincinnati to get their clothes all dusty from bumping into the exterior of my SUV as they load lunches, luggage, and laptops in the pre-dawn dim.
I consider myself a considerate chauffeur, so I take my car through the wash the day before we leave for the trip.
I try out a newly revamped car wash, and I’m pleased to hit it at a time when there was no line.
I choose from a too-long list of options. I don’t know what some of the stuff does (kinda like half the appliances in my kitchen) or if the extra stuff is worth the cost (kinda like half the appliances in my kitchen).
I pay the fee and wait for the large red X to turn into a large green arrow.
I inch the SUV forward slowly, allowing the undercarriage to get good and soaked with whatever it soaks the undercarriage with.
I put it in park.
I sit back and breathe.
There’s nowhere to go.
There’s nothing to do but just be here with the swooshes and sprays of water and the dance of the sprayer arms as they twirl around the hood and sides.
Then it comes.
A shower of suds floats down the windshield and side windows, a cotton candy-colored foam blanket that dims the light inside the vehicle. Everything else is muffled and far away.
An ever-so-soft, soapy aroma comes through the vents.
Peaceful.
I reach for my phone and snap a picture of the iridescent bubbles. I pull up the contact for my friend in France and nearly sent it to her. My thumb hovers over the send button.
Wait.
First off, this is silly. It’s soap. I don’t need to share a picture of soap. Who does this?
Second, it’s me. I do this.
I scroll back through my photos.
Yup. More than once before. Photos of the foamy froth.
Evidently, I have a cotton-candy-colored-car-wash-soap-suds fetish, so much so that I document these moments to share with friends.
I look up, where the plain water is washing away the pretty. It’s brighter inside now, from the rinsing away of the suds and the washing clean of the dirt and grime.
Other than the tiny nagging in my head that I’m pathologically obsessed with car wash suds, I feel… calm.
And that’s it. I think I savor these moments because they’re rare. The calm moments where all the senses are engaged.
Inside the tunnel of the wash, there’s nowhere else to be. Nothing else to do. And a bonus of all the pretty colors. And that whispy sweetness through the vents.
A rare micro-moment of escape—even if you can’t escape.
As I type, thinking back on that car wash and those suds, I’m sitting on the hotel bed waiting for the first of the classes to begin. Beside me is a novel that’s been on my to-be-read list for quite a while. I started it before we left and couldn’t help but bring it along, even though I know it makes no logical sense.
There’s not much time to read on this trip. We’re about to be taught about story structure, dialogue, and emotional resonance.
As I pause to think about the next sentence, I reach over to feel the cover and fan the pages.
It’s silly, really.
I tried out a new independent bookstore a while back and was pleased to hit it at a time when it wasn’t too busy.
I chose from a too-long list of options. I didn’t know what some of the titles would bring (kinda like all the recipes I attempt in my kitchen) or if other titles were worth the cost (kinda like most of the ingredients in my kitchen).
I paid the fee for an unfamiliar author.
I opened the cover slowly and rolled through the first few chapters, ignoring giant bossy interruptions leading up to the conference.
I parked my new read in my suitcase.
And now, I sit back and breathe.
There’s nowhere to go, at least for a few minutes.
There’s nothing to do but just be here with the swooshes and sprays of wonder and the dance of the words as they twirl and dive.
Then it comes.
A shower of images floats down over the world, a cotton candy-colored dreamscape that dims the light and muffles the hustle in the room.
An ever-so-soft hint of adventure whisps off the pages.
Peaceful.
I look up from the pages where my roommates are chatting and getting their bags ready for class. It’s brighter inside the room from the gradual falling away of that other world.
Other than the tiny nagging in my head that my introverted self is about to be thrust into a very people-y situation, I feel… calm.
And I’m glad I packed that book.
I savor these moments because they’re rare. Moments where all the senses are engaged and you experience another world through someone else’s eyes.
When you choose to spend time in a story, even if it’s just a micro-moment, there’s nowhere else to be. Nothing else to do. And a bonus of all the pretty colors. And that whispy sweetness rising off the pages.
And that’s why I’m here.
So I close the cover of my book. I’ll soon close the laptop. And I’ll pick up my bag and my notebook and pen. I’ll head to class.
Story structure, dialogue, emotional resonance.
I’ll do this so my stories might offer those cotton candy micro-moments of escape—for you and me both.
