“Not that smart. I’ve been at the airport for hours. And I’m still here.”
“Flight delayed?” she asks.
“Delayed again.”
“Fortune favors the prepared, sweetie.”
“Not my fortune. Fortune hates me.”
“It’ll catch up eventually. I’m sorry about the delay. I know how much you’ve been looking forward to your big retreat.”
“Thanks.”
“What do you need from me right now? Commiseration? A pep talk?”
“A proverbial slap will do just fine,” I say. The guy next to me shifts, but I physically can’t care what a guy in a Santa Stetson with a Christmas face tattoo thinks.
“Okay, proverbial slap it is,” she says. “Pull yourself together! Your flight was delayed. So what? Would you rather have paced around the apartment worrying about whether or not you’d be late? No. You’re fine. You can wait a couple more hours to wow the entire baseball world.”
“I’m not going to wow anyone.”
“Not with that attitude, you’re not. Now go splash some cold water on your face, find a Coconut Cream Dr. Pepper, and snap out of it.”
“You want me to wash my makeup off? Are you insane?”
Juliet laughs. “I gotta go. See you when you get back. Oh, and Nate and I sent a couple of surprises to the resort to cheer you on.”
“Please tell me they’re small.”
“I can confidently say both are smaller than a breadbox.”
“Phew,” I say. “Now go nurse your face off!”
“That does not sound how you think it sounds,” Juliet says.
“It really doesn’t,” I agree, cringing. “Have a great day at work, Nurse Jules!”
“Better. Love you!”
“Byeeee.”
I feel better after talking to my friend. She’s getting married in a couple of months, so our time as roommates is coming to an end. And I hate it.
So I refuse to think about it.
Refusing to think about things that cause me pain is my go-to coping tactic. I manage this with distraction, avoidance, and by always, always taking extra work home with me.
Like right now, for instance. Some people would take out a book and make their airport time their self-care time, but I don’t believe in self-care, because self-care leaves time for thinking, and thinking leaves time for grieving, and I don’t have time for that.
So instead, I take out my laptop and pull up a color-coded spreadsheet I’ve put my blood, sweat, and tears into over the last eleven months. Less the blood.
“What’s that?” Face Tattoo says.
I angle it away from him. “It’s something for work, but it’s proprietary. Sorry.”
“What do you do for work?”
“Stats,” I say vaguely.
