Today I had a moment of zen.
It started—or rather, it hit me—as I followed my wife into the house.
We had just gotten home with the boy after being out to do basically nothing. Just a random Monday evening. The boy comes in and asks if I want to go for a ride.
“Yeah, why not? Let’s go.”
Pretty soon the three of us are in the Impala, riding—no, cruising—down the street, talking about nothing and headed to Walmart. Something about Pokémon cards that never actually happened.
A woman’s jaw drops as we drive by. You can always tell who recognizes Baby.
We all laugh about it.
Cruising the aisles at Walmart, the missus and I both notice two guys exchanging signals as they seem to be shoplifting a rotisserie chicken.
I'm unsurprisingly okay with it.
We all got something sweet. The boy grabbed peanut butter cups, my wife some overpriced freeze-dried something covered in chocolate. Me, icing sugar and marshmallow fluff.
My coworkers are in for a treat.
Then it was back in the car and off to Dairy Queen.
“Why is this place always crowded?”
Nothing for me. I sit in the car posting a snarky comment on Substack while they get whatever they came for.
We drove home more philosophical than we were on the way there.
Meanwhile, I’d sipped more of someone else’s milkshake than I care to admit.
And as my wife skipped into the house, I saw a carefree lightness in her step that bordered on cliché.
One better.
I felt it.
For the first time in—I can’t remember how long—I felt like I had done all that I could do today.
And that was enough.
I think somewhere along the way we forgot how to feel finished.
Even rest has become something we're supposed to optimize.
Apparently even doing nothing has homework now.
But tonight, for once, my brain wasn't negotiating with tomorrow.
Tomorrow can ask things of me when it gets here.
Right now, my family is healthy. We're together. My wife is skipping into the house.
And I've got marshmallow fluff stuck to my fingers.
That's enough.