Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
“Oh, Lola, please come.” The prospect of a week with my big sister lifts my heart. “The girls would love to see you. So would I.”
“Consider it done,” Lola says, her smile gentle and understanding. “Anything for you, mija.”
“Love you guys.” Nayeli shoots us a harried glance. “But I gotta go. I knew those heathens were too quiet. Now I have to cut gum out of this child’s hair.”
We chuckle and disconnect. And not a moment too soon. I need to set up for the “Cook with Me Live” broadcast.
“Dammit,” I say. “Already late.”
I get my phone set up and start the session.
“I know I’m late.” I shake my head and chuckle. “It’s been a day, but come cook with me. If you’re following along, get your ground beef going. I have two pans here. One for my carnivores and one for my vegetarian. If you were wondering what’s for dinner…”
I look into the camera and wink, already feeling like I’m among friends as I see the comments flooding my feed.
“Don’t worry. Sol’s got ya.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SOLEDAD
“Knowing how to be solitary is central to the art of loving. When we can be alone, we can be with others without using them as a means of escape.”
—bell hooks, All About Love: New Visions
A day in the life of an influencer dating herself.
That could work as a title for my next post. My followers like seeing the times I carve out to be alone each week. I’m still blown away by how many of them have started their own “dating myself” journeys. I hope these times alone provide them with the same comfort and contemplation they afford me.
Walking through Skyland is a different experience on a Sunday morning at seven than at any other time. Shop windows are shuttered, CLOSED signs turned to the street, café tables stowed inside. The only signs of life are in nature, like a choir of birds waking up to sing their Sunday-morning hymns.
It’s nearly two miles from my house to Skyland Square, and I relish every step through the deserted cobbled streets. I pull in a bracing breath, let the cold air go to my head, and clear my jumbled thoughts. I like coming to Sky Park before the hard-core alfresco yoga girlies venture out. There’s a Sunday-morning class that meets here till Christmas, weather permitting. Bundled up and ready to pose and flex, they arrive around nine.
I’ll be long gone by then.
I walk through the high arched gate of Sky Park and find the limestone bench I’ve come to think of as mine. It’s planted in the shadow of a dogwood tree that flowers white for a few glorious weeks in spring and richly green in summer. A layer of autumn’s purple and red leaves blanket the ground, shed from the spindly branches stretching to the sky, naked and shivering in the early-morning chill.
I set my bag on the ground at my feet, sit on the bench, and close my eyes. The first few times I came here, it was hard to silence the voices in my head. The questions I don’t want to consider bombard me as soon as I’m not driving Lottie to gymnastics or taking the girls to school or cooking dinner or volunteering at Harrington. Or… and the list of things I’d rather think about than my mistakes goes on and on.
When conversing with the heart, expect it to talk back, to revisit the pains and disappointments that left the deepest dents and scratches.
Infidelity from a man you thought you knew will have you rethinking everything. Replaying each argument and reliving all the moments you saw one way but that surely had to be another. The voices in your head tell you it was because you took too long losing the weight after that last kid, or maybe it was him being in the delivery room. Some men never see their wives the same after that. You should have given him more blow jobs. Cooked better, cleaned better, anticipated his needs.
He wanted someone more ambitious.
No, more docile.
No, more outspoken.
Because he obviously wanted someone who wasn’t you.
It’s in these quiet moments, in these conversations with my heart, that I realize I can never take responsibility for someone else’s bad character. Edward made a vow and broke it, underestimated forever. He is the past. At this point the only questions I’m interested in are the ones about myself. Shouldn’t I have known? The fundamental question becomes not Can I trust another man again?, but Can I trust myself? He was a bad man, yes, but was I a bad judge of character? And would I be again? What will I accept in my next relationship? Will there be another? What are my boundaries? My desires? My limits?
The answers surface in my heart, often surprising and sometimes frightening. Once I jot my thoughts down in my Sunday-morning journal, I rise, glancing at my watch to make sure I won’t be late for my reservation at Sunny Side. Yasmen, Hendrix, and I love this place, but I’ve started hitting it solo on my way home after the park. It opens at eight, and the first ten customers get the half-price early bird special. Best believe I’m always first in line. I requested a gift card to this place in exchange for meal prep for a busy neighbor. A week of meals in exchange for a Sunny Side gift card. If she’d given me cash, I would have found something for the family to spend it on. This time alone is a discipline I invest in, so each Sunday I use her gift card with its dwindling balance to meet myself here.