Circa age three, my Great Grandmother Lucille taught me this rhyme and how to pump my legs to use our backyard swingset. This Thanksgiving offered a full-circle moment to that earliest memory.
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This week, I had a dream I just can’t shake. And after some reflection and real-life intervention, I don't think I want to. It all makes sense.
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Every year, my grandma writes me and my brother Chanukah cards. They’re personalized, filled with love, and usually also filled with gelt: chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil when we were younger, and a small bit of money today. This Chanukah, her card was just what I needed as I stepped off of a rollercoaster of a semester.
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I clip into my spin bike and look around the room. I spot the familiar faces and think, These guys are always here. They must come all the time. Way more than me.
Before I even start the workout, I beat myself up a bit. Why?
The music starts to speed up. I catch my rhythm and try to dismiss the thoughts.
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Around 11pm, I exited the highway onto a double turn lane. In the left lane, I inched out for a right on red. The truck next to me, pulling a giant trailer, followed in full force. They gunned their gas and I watched as momentum swung the trailer into my lane. I sped my VW Beetle into the opposite side of the double yellow. One car, in oncoming traffic, switched lanes…
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I circled the packed YMCA parking lot. My anxious pre-yoga pep talk did not go well: “I’m not going to get a spot and I’ll be late for class. There might not be room for me. Even if there is, I don’t want to be that person.”
I took a deep breath and kept circling.
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After family staycations at the Embassy Suites, my twin sister and I thought “happy hour” was actually called “happy time”. Often, we’d take these trips in the fall. Rachel, my brother Joshua and I would swim for hours. We’d leave the warm indoor pool only to procure Shirley Temple and popcorn refills. We’d sloth on the walls of the pool, shoveling buttery goodness into our mouths. As leaves crunch and the weather crisps, it’s easy to get nostalgic.
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In Galveston, I had a quirky tour guide with flowing blonde hair and sunglasses at night. He was off topic more than he was on and I didn’t mind. I was along for the ride, listening to his stories until the last stop. “Valentines Day: every woman’s favorite holiday. Am I right, men?” He elaborated on how women like to feel loved “yadda yadda yadda.” I don’t remember; I’d stopped listening. His glance returned to me, expecting more smiles and nodding. I shot him a stone face. He corrected, “Well maybe not all women.”
I wanted to jump in and explain that Valentine’s IS one of my favorite holidays, but not for the reasons you assume, Sir! I wanted to tell him the story about my dad and the balloons!
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