I left the boy with Betty yesterday and headed out to the particular circle of hell that is Costco prior to Thanksgiving.
Getting in the car, I had this tremendous rush of freedom.
The parking lot was horrendous. I circled and circled and finally waited for a woman with a child to load her car, saunter her cart back, and strap in her kid. Usually I avoid the kid people because they take forever.
I'm not doing the glass house stone throwing. I'm telling you. It's a process.
But I swear she gave me a dirty look for waiting. In fact, I think she walked her cart all the way back to the cart-putting place just because I was there with my blinker on. I bet she'd have ditched it on the side if I weren't.
Inside, people were staggering around, even more laden than usual, slowly pushing overloaded carts. One woman had six or seven turkeys in hers.
And I wasn't remotely bitter. Because I was alone. Unencumbered.
It sounds so unkind when I put it that way, doesn't it? But it's true. It felt so good.
So what if I was doing nothing more interesting than picking up 64 gallons of milk, 500 apples, and 40 pounds of cheese?
I was all by myself. No child to entertain. No little human constantly demanding my attention, wanting to get down, shrieking because I couldn't pick him up the moment he said, "Up! Up!"
It wasn't as drastic as when I first had Jordan, and hadn't yet been diagnosed with PPD, and going to the DMV felt like a spa vacation and once I left the house I never wanted to return.
Not at all.
But it was kind of like in the Disney cartoons where the birds are singing you a happy little tune, and delicious baking smells are wafting towards you, and the air sparkles with possibility.
Zennest damn Costco trip I've ever had in my life.
I mean, if Zen feels anything like baked bread samples and a new pair of fleece pants.