Image: Creative Commons.
I was so very much looking forward to my alone-time tomorrow: I planned on treating myself to a day of luxury. No mandatory social events, no dishes, no cooking, no idle chatter. Instead, a bubble bath, uninterrupted. A bowl of mashed potatoes, eaten right out of the serving bowl. And most of all, no guilt for not participating in a holiday that forces many people to pretend everything is perfectly fine in their family dynamic, when it's really not.
Then I got a call. An urgent one: would I be willing to cook dinner for 70 battered women, their children, and a bunch of volunteers?
It seems that the cook had the flu, and there was no one to fill such an ample apron.
I said yes.
It's been my year of saying yes to everything. True, it wasn't a writing opportunity, but it was a doing good opportunity, and those deserve a yes, too.
After I said yes, I found out the budget was very small. My mind had to stretch alongside my dollars as I tried to figure out how to create a meal for so many for so little.
When I mentioned this series of not-so-perfect-events to friends, some said told me it was rather nervy for anyone to ask someone else to make a dinner with no budget. Poor planning, they said.
But this is life. We work with what we've got and we fly by the seat of our pants. Or skirts.
I'm doing the same exact thing in my writing life right now: I've got big plans and (perhaps) not enough money to do what I want to do, but this small detail doesn't matter.
It all works out. And thank you to that nice man in Trader Joes who bought me four turkeys.