Envisioning

In less than twelve hours, my husband will lay eyes on his beloved bride of twenty-one years after an almost eighteen day absence. I can hardly bear it myself. As much as I love my brothers, they aren’t home for me. Neither is California. My home is in good ol’ Tennessee!

But for the night, it’s a double bed in a nice clean room in ye olde’ Quality Inn situated in Vacaville. Interestingly enough, Gary was once in a prison in this fair city. I can’t tell you how many times I penned this little cow town’s name on plain business-sized white envelopes. Evidently, though, it’s outlet malls and an historic downtown which draws the folks in. For me, it was the available room for a single adult after four earlier strike-outs . . . and the Starbucks just down the road.

One of the amenities is the box of tissues I found on the bathroom counter. A very likable green and leaf motif package design with a pleasant-sounding name: Envision. After pulling one out, I realized I was to envision actual tissue in my hand as opposed to the rough and raspy thing between my fingers. I gingerly dabbed my nose with the stuff, worried it might come in contact with my mouth and rip the healing membrane covering the annoying trio of cold sores which suddenly erupted on my lower lip yesterday. (Just in time for that wedding I’m attending as a satin-ensconced bridesmaid on Sunday!) On the bottom of the box, Georgia-Pacific brags that there is a 10% post-consumer recycled content in the fair product. What might that be?! 10% steel wool? 10% fiberglass? 10% wood chips, perhaps?!

My fatigue is evident even before I state it. Why else would I wax on about Kleenex at the end of such a momentous trip? Perhaps because, at the end of a rewarding but emotionally draining day, not to mention the extra four-plus hours of driving I did journeying into, and out of, the fair city by the bay – San Francisco – a travel-weary gal just wants a wee bit of comfort. Even if it is for her nose!

My belly is busily digesting the half a restaurant-baked cherry pie and two slices of combination pizza I munched on during my earlier adventurous commute. From time to time, over the miles and through the toll booths, I dug my fingers into the box and pulled out gooey chunks of cherry and crust, licking as I went, alternating with handfuls of lite microwave popcorn, washing it all down with pink grapefruit sparkling Perrier water. My dinner. My coping mechanism in a city where left and right turns are offered more to taxicabs and buses than cars and trucks, horns wear out for all the rude honking, and pedestrians gobble up the valuable green light time at intersections. I only hoped to check out the three-story Anthropologie store on Market Street. But the lack of parking and my lack of directional familiarity with the roads (my iPhone had the directions straight to the store, but I drove past and could NEVER get back!) thwarted my valiant attempts. I surrendered and left through the tunnel and over the bridge and past the protective foothills.

That’s all I got. I believe sleep is what the doctor would order if she knew me!