Often when I was younger, our wider family would meet at our house for Thanksgiving. My mom would spend that morning cleaning every surface of our home, insisting that I help. I didn’t. I felt any child had an inalienable right to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on television, and, conveniently, whatever west coast equivalent was aired after it was over. (Sorry, Mom.)
And then it was time for my cousins and aunts and uncles to arrive. Almost. So I’d check the driveway.
Maybe they came early.
But maybe they came early, but not as early.
(Any view of the driveway required going to a tv-less room.)
They always arrived eventually, probably right when they said they would, but that didn’t stop me from wearing down a path to the front window, checking for cars in the driveway.
I was excited. And hungry. Today, 5 weeks shy of my 27th birthday, my life feels like Thanksgiving mornings. Is it time now? No? Okay, how about now? No? So, what I have 5 more minutes? Longer? Seriously?
A watched pot does boil. Eventually. And then it’s boiling and you have to make sure it doesn’t overflow and make a mess which it sometimes does even if you did put the precautionary olive oil in the water. But there’s plenty to do in the meantime, waiting for that. And [because I can’t resist over-extending a metaphor] a larger, fuller pot does take longer to boil.
But, really, life. I can smell the turkey roasting in the oven.