What Does A Carrot Peeler

by

Have to do with anything?

I once would not have been able to tell you, but the conversation I had with my mom on Sunday revealed itself to me this morning as I was standing in the aisle at Cole Valley Hardware looking at the carrot peelers.

Damn.

Those things are expensive.

Then I heard the tone of my mother’s worry and anxiety around finances and I heard myself wish to not be of that mindset.

It takes a long time to change that sort of despair and belief that there is not enough in the world.

Mom was just talking about financial insecurity and I heard loud and clear where I pick it up from.

Then another voice, oh for Pete’s sake, buy the peeler, Martines.

This is the voice I am listening to more of, rather than the one of deprivation and there’s not enough, the one that says there is not abundance, there is not hope, there are people who have it all and you don’t get to be one of them, you need to suffer.

Yup, all this crap went through my head in the kitchenware aisle at the hardware store.

See, I bought a carrot peeler a few days back, at some janky ass little Asian cheapie junk store on Irving.

Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love Japanese dollar stores, they are awesome.

But the carrot peeler, it sucked.

And when I went to use it yesterday I ended up throwing it in the garbage.

Funny thing, I had looked a the exact carrot peeler I bought today and opted to not get it because it was too expensive and I’ll just get the cheaper one.

Cheaper not always better.

I almost put it back in the hardware store, I don’t have as many hours as I want and I….

Shut up.

I am fine.

There is money.

Buy the carrot peeler, buy the dish drain mat, buy the god damn nice soap dish, buy the ice-cube trays and while you’re at it, get some paper towels you eco conscious lady you, you like to use them.

Don’t deny yourself nice things.

I deserve them.

And if you saw the way I live you would say I am not exactly living high on the hog.

I am alright with my lot.

I am.

I was reflecting on that as well, as the baby napped, and I was doing my morning writing.

I am working a job where they say, help yourself to the tea, and we bought this one just for you.  Go ahead and write, in fact, here’s a notebook I found that I thought you would like.  Where I get to sit in the sun and watch the clouds roll by, where I am outside and giggling with a baby as he flirts with a gaggle of old ladies on tour in Golden Gate Park.

My job is pretty awesome.

I am wanted and needed and it pays my rent.

I could use a few more hours, but I picked up a half shift this week and found out that next week the mom won’t be going out-of-town and my hours won’t be cut.

I’ll make rent for October, as well as my student loan, and groceries, and I won’t have to dip into my savings.

Savings that I am setting aside for Paris.

Not to move back, but to pay for this move back.

I still owe Barnaby for the return ticket.

He gave me a year to pay it off and I want to have it paid before then.

However, I am not going to hurt myself trying to do so.

It is nice to have a few hundred dollars in my savings.

I like having that safety cushion.

And as I sat accepting that I could be a nanny for the next ten years and who cares?

I mean, really, who cares?

I get to write, I have gotten to travel, I get to giggle, to sit and read the New Yorker when the napping is happening, probably not much tomorrow as I have three babies on the day, but there are days I get the reading while the napping happens.

The commute in?

Twenty minutes.

The relaxing stroll around the block looking at houses.

Houses which I used to covet.

Houses which I don’t any more.

I may own one of those houses one day.

I may not.

But what I know today is that I have a home, a home that I can afford, it is small and cozy and just so.

I opened the door to the night as I went to bed yesterday evening.

I listened to the crash of the surf as I fell asleep.

I figured I could get up and close the door at any time if it got cold, although I probably would not have felt it as I bought myself a good comforter at Ikea, I spent the entire night with the door open and it was a soothing balm on my rest.

There is no need to change who I am or what I am.

I am not broken.

I deserve a good carrot peeler and a nice bed.

Spicy tea and sweet apples.

The quiet respite from the negative accusation that I have not done enough or am enough.

My life is yet from half over and there is still so much to learn and grow and be and get to do.

Listening to my mom I could have poked a hole in the fallacy of her thinking, but it was not my place, rather, what I learned and listened to and recognized is that she has always been taken care of.

Always.

And she is in her sixties.

I can extrapolate that out to myself.

I will always be taken care of.

Especially if I continue to do that work, of which I am not planning on dropping anytime soon.  I am going to be just fine and spending another eight dollars on something that will be helpful when I cook for myself seems a silly thing to quibble over.

Thus, the acceptance has not to do with  thinking there is a lack, I just got to accept I ain’t gonna get what I need, rather the acceptance is to recognize for myself that there is abundance.

I accept abundance.

This is acceptance.

Of reality.

The other is a fantasy I inflict upon myself.

Oh, yeah, that’s correct, my fantasies have nothing to do with success, but rather with deprivation, I’m good a dreaming up that crap.

Right here, right now.

I accept myself.

My job.

My art.

My voice.

My fucking authentic fabulous self.

“Paris misses your pink,” a friend wrote me in a message.

Indeed.

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