On Buying Bread and Other Existential Crises

I panicked buying bread the other day.

It’s not really worth mentioning except that it kind of illustrates the whole of my existential being lately. It was one of those things: Me standing in a supermarket aisle full of bread – sliced, whole wheat, iron fortified, and baguette – when I heard myself sputter and crack a little.

Anywhere we’ve ever travelled Rich’s philosophy when eating was to order bravely. “Yes, I’ll take the duck spam special!” or “One curry-wurst please”. And of course, who could forget the time when “I’ll take the sprout and tarter sandwich on a penis loaf,” came fumbling out of his mouth? The point is Rich knows to order bravely when on vacation because, as he puts it, “There’s always bread in case I don’t like what I ordered.”

I’m the say way.

(Minus the penis loaf.)

What I mean is change the food metaphor into experiencing anything while travelling and I can honestly say that I’m the same kind of brave.

This morning, I took a leisurely tour around my blogging community, not having been around for a while since I’ve been somewhat preoccupied with turning my world up-side-down. One of my favorite bloggers, K A B L O O E Y, a hilariously dead-pan writer who enjoys the irony in life as much as any realistic mother living in a surrealistic world can, wrote about vacationing this week. She talked about the fact that when, for example, on a cruise, she finds herself conversing with people and sharing experiences with them more than she does in her day-to-day life. She said she would normally rather “juggle flaming batons” than “work a room” in her community and attributes her bravery to the fact that she isn’t held accountable for who she is among folks who don’t send their kids to the same school or other folks she sees on a daily basis.

The second I read that, it occurred to me what happened in the bread aisle. Like K A B L O O E Y, I lose my inhibitions when I travel. The hard truth is I like who I am better when out of town because there is no baggage tied to me. I become more friendly and convivial, and it’s evident. My body feels less deflated, my shoulders straighten for once, and there is color- actual rose colored life- in my cheeks. I love travelling!

Herein lies the conflict: I have never been to England other than in that capacity. My expectations about this place are skewed.

When I dreamed of living here, I thought I might skip down to my little Boho coffee and tea shop every morning under a gray sky, brolly at the ready. I would order a cuppa and peruse the morning paper a little, rolling my eyes at the headlines and willing myself to remember an important and upcoming town event. I would be Rory and Lorelai in one – waving at other locals, witticisms and pop culture references dripping off my tongue. People would say hello to me by name and we would have running jokes about the town eccentric. Then I would need to “dash” to catch a train on which I could sit and meditate through what my day would be like at work before I had to actually immerse myself in it.

Instead here’s the reality: Every morning I have to hurry like a mad woman to get the family out the door and Jack to his nursery. Rich practically runs Jack around the block while I stumble to the car in heels not meant for cross-country, cobble stone marathons. I don’t mind the drizzle, except that holding a brolly and coffee and my school bag while tripping down a street isn’t ideal. I get into the car, parked blocks away, and white knuckle my way down a very tiny lane to pick up Rich who tries desperately every morning to swiftly drop off Jack despite the lovely child-minder’s efforts to engage him in conversations about the best way to trim the hedges and a very kind man named Mr. Innocent.

I don’t go in because I’m much more whimpy than Rich and will stay and listen politely instead of interrupting to say that we’re late and I’m sorry but we can’t talk right now. Rich can do that. And when he does, he leaps into the car and we hurry up and wait in traffic for twenty minutes (if we’re lucky) on the way to work, dodging cyclists and buses anytime the rpm goes above 0.0. Forget a leisurely morning. Forget speaking to anyone. Forget “dashing” and/ or meditating, and insert soul crushing anxiety about being on time to work.

(Oops, here's an aside:
After one particularly difficult day at work, we picked up Jack and promised him milk and cookies at the Boho tea shop downstairs from our flat. He bounded in like a playful puppy and into a chair by the counter. Before I could get there, he stood up so that he could see over the counter-top and enthusiastically said, “Milk and cookies, please!” to the attendant. The second I thought, “Look how comfortable he is here,” and “this is a lovely hang out for us after school!” the lady at the counter turned to me and snarled,

“We do not allow shoes on the furniture here.”

End aside)

The reality of all of this manifested itself in the bread aisle at Tescos. I’m not on vacation. I live here. No one, including me, is obligated to be anything other than routinely deflated – by our jobs, by our frantic schedules, by our rent payments.

Don’t get me wrong. I love it here. Most days I'll stand on anyone's chair and freely wave my Union Jack. I’m glad to be buying bread, and possbibly this is the most brave thing I've ever done, other than raising a child. It's worth it to be here.

I am living my dream in England, but it turns out, that like any place that isn't vacation, there happens to be an inhibitive reality here. I've only just realized it.