The one remaining brain cell I’ve been running on since before Mom passed is tired.
It’ll revive and promise to multiply, so that I can have two brain cells to work with, but alas, my little buddy will fizzle, flop, deflate, and hibernate, leaving the words making little sense and, sometimes, being unable to properly read the screen.
Like right now.
I know I’m sleep deprived. I know I’m in a “life roll,” as my writing mentor calls events like this. I’m trying to cut myself some slack.
But I also know English is my first language, and I shouldn’t be struggling this hard. Like it’s the first week of high school Spanish and the finals are tomorrow.
Close friends and Couch Lady are on it, offering support, moments of distraction and joy, and places to process the heaviness.
But heaven have mercy, am I on the struggle bus.
On a recent trip to Arkansas, the Adultish Man Child and I crammed several mini activities around a friend’s wedding celebration.
(See, I tried to come up with some brilliant transition sentence between the opening and the “get to the point” analogy of this blog, but that brain cell deflated. So, you, Dear Reader, get a little train-track-hopping whiplash. Welcome to the party!)
The first order of business before the flights home was to source a decent volume of real food that need not be cleared through TSA.
The hotel breakfast was… hotel breakfast. Their eggs tasted like they came from powder. Or… maybe not a chicken. I’m not sure, but neither of us wanted another round of “maybe not eggs.”
On our comings and goings, we spied a classic Denny’s diner. I knew it was a classic because it said “Classic Diner” in cursive neon red above all the chrome. Tired as it may be, this one brain cell can still read cursive, which I am quite proud of.
Only two other cars were in the parking lot, and somewhere in the deep recesses, I think maybe this should be a warning sign, but we go in anyway.
The right half of the restaurant was blocked off by the hostess stand and two yellow caution signs on the floor. Clearly, the right half leaks. Lucky for us, the restrooms were on the left side of the building.
Must-have-in-all-diners padded stools lined the bar area. No one sat on them.
Several booths lined the window front, giving a good view of the street, and once seated, you couldn’t see that the right half of the building was leaking.
From my vantage point, I could see past the bar and back into the grill area. Once in a while, someone dressed in all black would walk through that space, wiping forehead sweat on their shirt sleeve.
I stopped looking.
Our waitress was kind, efficient, and, like the building and my one brain cell, gave a vibe that suggested she perhaps most definitely understood the struggle-bus struggles of life.
She took our order, and the sweaty human in the back made, quite possibly, the best eggs I may have ever had in my life. Real eggs. From real chickens.
Two old geezers (I say this with the utmost respect, because I know they’re old enough to read cursive) sat in the booth directly behind me.
Yes, I eavesdropped throughout the meal. No, I’m not sorry.
Their conversation was well underway by the time I tuned in. They’d clearly not solved the issue of how their particular organization should spend recently donated funds.
Adultish Man Child would tune in, too, grin, shrug, and then he and I would bounce from topic to topic, mostly about the maple doughnut holes that were making my eyes do that thing and wondering if we should order more “these are definitely eggs” eggs.
At one point, I excused myself to use the restroom, got a good view of the gentleman behind me (it was then that I dubbed them "Geezers" instead of gentlemen), and encountered several spots of curling duct tape holding up the trim along the flooring.
I decided not to care because I was getting real eggs, maple doughnut holes, and free entertainment.
By the time I returned from the table, the Geezers' conversation had become… adamant. Close to heated. Not with each other, but regarding their conundrum, which seemed to have no right answer.
Just enough money to make the decision impossible. Spend all the money on Problem A, and Problem A will still need more money. Same outcome with Problem B. Split the money between the problems, and, well… see?
Their arguments, pros, and cons were leaking and held together with duct tape.
I slid back into my booth seat and listened to them spin a few seconds longer as I dabbed my finger in the leftover powdered sugar. We paid for the food, and I caught another glimpse of the cook wiping sweat on his sleeve.
On the way out, I noticed more spots of trim barely hanging on to the frame, aided by tired duct tape. But my belly was full of eggs and sugar and I didn’t care.
The Geezers exited behind us and stood by their respective cars, still trying to solve the unsolvable. Now they have Problem C, which neither of them considered until their feet shuffled to the parking lot.
The thought struck me that my energy is leaking and my mental fortitude is held together with tired duct tape. The gumption I have is not enough to fully tackle A, B, or C, and giving a little to all leads to Problem D.
No clear solution exists, no matter how much I spin on it. If someone were to look closely, they’d see my one brain cell in the back wiping forehead sweat on its shirt sleeve.
But, perhaps, in the middle of it all, I can manage to whip together a few blogs or stories that taste like they came from real chickens.
I mean…
You know what I mean?
I’m trying to write real, honest-to-goodness eggs, here.
Maybe I should write them in cursive.
