I envisioned celebrating this moment by spraying champagne bubbles from atop the van, the peachy foam cascading down my bikini top in waves of joy.

For real.

I even bought a new one. A bright, cheery cross between coral and mandarin to align with the color scheme of the decor. (It was only $10. On clearance. That magical “c” word.) But instead of celebrating, we are quietly enduring. One flimsy glass of wine. Sagging sweatpants, the picture of defeat.

It’s one thing to toss around hypothetical sums in one’s head. To mentally deduct a figure from one’s bank account, 2 weeks in advance as preparation. But it’s quite another when a young girl with bottle black hair and too much eyeliner says the words seven THOUSAND sixty-one.. AND EIGHTY-SIX CENTS. Her voice is casual. Even. The same tone as if we’d just pumped $17 of diesel into the tank and could get away with sliding a single, rumpled note across the counter.

My hands tremble as I scribble out the signatures that indicate my legal approval. YES, they say! Proceed! I didn’t care about that particular portion of savings anyway! Impassively, the clerk looks on. She doesn’t get it. She must be too young. A name tag with too many redundant, cutesy consonants precludes her from true understanding. She produces the wan smile perfected by customer service employees that hate their job, and slides our 2 receipts across to us–I don’t carry a card that allows single transactions of that gargantuan size–stapled to an invoice 3 pages long.

I’m happy to have Paula back. There’s only so many times you can trick yourself into believing that the traffic outside your window is really a rolling ocean. But this does mean I’ll have to switch back to cage eggs to compensate. The bikini though–that stays. I’m only able to sacrifice so much.

-K

^ Wine for the win. Junkyard edition. Our home for the past 2 weeks. SEE YA, NEVER.