underachieving overachiever

"there has been an emergency reported. please proceed to the nearest exit and evacuate the building."

at seven thirty-three pm four weeks into leading a group of fifteen, the alarm system in our thirteen-story apartment building squaked, causing residents of the 147 units to congregate on the corner of ninth street.

two years, six months, and one day married to my husband (six foot three, 190, thirty years old), i (five foot eight, shoe size nine-and-a-half) my role, TBD. forty hours a week, six thousand audiovisuals in the library three blocks from home, checking out 9, nine, 9 1/2 to nineteen- to twenty-two-year olds to take home for one week, beep, beep. come home, make dinner. carrots- purple, white, orange, oven at 425. five pounds of free hamburger from the butcher on third; four cuts of beef- short rib, shoulder, ribeye, brisket. run three seven and a half minute miles five days a week, curl two eight pound barbells.


"there has been an emergency reported. please proceed to the nearest exit and evacuate the building."

twenty-six hours earlier, four and a half cups of flour, one and one quarter cups sugar, two sticks of butter, two cups milk, baking power, soda, yeast, cinnamon. six pm, oven at 375. smash and roll dough with twenty-inch rolling pin. spin, slice, smash into three pans, twenty-two cinnamon rolls. shove into oven, sticky sugars seeping. take five, twirl, sit, chat with new friend (third day of new job, five years married, new pet lizard-four days ago). smoke.

smoke?

five minutes in the oven, peek. syrupy cinnamon drips onto foil barrier. vent on, windows open.

(fifty-two hours, four cups of tea, one double latte, three pears, four strips of bacon, two eggs, one- no, two ninety-percent chocolate bars, zero glasses of wine. four dog walks, one episode of dr. phil. one year, ten pound weight gain, pant size four.)

the house fills with smoke as our guests taper in,

"there has been an emergency reported. please proceed to the nearest exit and evacuate the building."

men in suits, strollers with babies, leashes with tiny dogs sprint out.

no more baking on wednesdays, maybe? my husband nudges. forced smile and bitten lips, i tug black striped socks out of the couch (three), take 45 minute lunch break at the grocery store buying strawberries and apples ($1.25and 88 cents a pound), two and a half pound block of sharp cheddar, one liter of iced tea.

seven forty-five pm, back inside. stifled coughs and fans running, guests gum gooey, under baked cinnamon rolls graciously.

"there has been an emergency reported. please proceed to the nearest exit and evacuate the building."

my fate is determined; to find freedom in restraint, stimulation in creativity, calmness in a consistent companion.

but no baking on wednesdays.