The Radisson Van: A Serenity Prayer
Loosely quoting Janet Malcolm:
Every married person who is not too stupid of too full of themselves realizes that not giving one’s partner a weekend away every so often is morally indefensible.
I recently and enthusiastically cashed in my chit and decamped to spring break destination MINNEAPOLIS, the Cancún of the upper Midwest. That great city of the north is home to Swedish reality television star and bestie Sally, for wherever we go, there we are (in a Cancún of our own devising.)
My flight was departing from LaGuardia in the wee dark hours of the morning and on top of that it was raining. I somehow managed to get dropped off at the brandy new terminal with all the cute shopping opportunities and good lighting, only to realize that this was not, in fact, the jank Delta terminal where I belonged. I realized this at 7:05a.m., and my flight was boarding at 7:15. Having trained in the Janette Thomas Greenwood Academy of Panicky Travel™, I always afford myself a little cushion. I was in the wrong terminal, and LGA does this awesome thing where you can’t walk between terminals but must instead board a shuttle bus to nowhere. I experienced the realization: IT IS HAPPENING! That for which we have trained, feared, and overcompensated for our entire lives! Our practice must now come into fruition!
I heaved (I do not run )my way to the curb to catch the ghost shuttle, which of course didn’t come. It didn’t come and it didn’t come and it didn’t come. And it’s now 7:12. But, wait, what’s that glistening mirage in the distance?! Is it a hotel shuttle van, letting passengers out? IT IS. A crossroads: does one follow the rules and wait in bovine equanimity to go through official channels to board a municipal bus and miss one’s flight, resulting in crying into a watery bloody mary while awaiting the next departure, wasting precious hours with bestie and away from one’s children for the first time since the baby was born? Or does one muster the chutzpah (and histrionics) to ask the driver of the Radisson van to make a quick stop for the pitiful dodo who managed to get through security at the entirely wrong terminal? Dear reader, I had to dig deep, but I did it. I tipped my man $20, told him he’d done such a kindness for me that I would surely pay forward, and within moments I was ensconced in the economy comfort seat I’d sprung for, watching the Devil Wears Prada and chowing down on vanilla biscotti.
I’ve been wanting to share this anecdote for a while, to celebrate the trap door, the hypotenuse, relying on the kindness of strangers, asking where the Radisson van of life is showing up for you these days, etc etc. Then, before I had the wherewithal to manufacture a simple accident at the airport into an anecdote of comedic hijinks and tender philosophy, I went and got COVID. Along with my whole family and children’s caregiver, and school.
I’ll spare you the details—I think we’ve heard this one before—and just say that on Day 4 of feeling like utter dog dick while caring for a three year old whose only symptom was being an asshole and to a baby who is learning to crawl while Scott still did his job full time with a fever and chills, I entered a new state of consciousness, one similar to postpartum life, when everything is stripped back to the immediate physical needs whoever is crying the most, sometimes me, when the world becomes apartment-sized but somehow also enormous and universal, teeming with such life you can’t believe the floor doesn’t give in.
I deleted Instagram and didn’t respond to texts because I have reconciled that my dumb brain cannot figure out the difference between actual loathing and plain old internet loathing, and kvetching about the state of affairs and re-experiencing them and working myself into a lather anew. The only way out is through, with the help of take-out, prescription drugs, putting the kids down at a smooth 6pm, ordering a bunch of shit off Amazon to keep Theo entertained, reading a few paragraphs in a psychedelic swirl of exhaustion. Sometimes there is no Radisson van.
So these days I’m saying my demented version of the serenity prayer: Goddess, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to get on the Radisson van when one appears on the horizon, and the wisdom to know the difference.
May I recommend to you…..
Two fab new books, I Know What’s Best For You edited by Shelly Oria and Bad Sex by Nona Willis Aronowitz
I’m putting together my syllabus for the seminar on true crime I’m teaching next spring and finally had occasion to read The Red Parts by Maggie Nelson. Incredible.
Finding Meaning in the Second Half of Life by James Hollis is blowing my mind. Apparently I not supposed to be baby anymore?
I watched Anatomy of a Scandal during COVID week and tripped so hard on how beautiful Sienna Miller is.
Drive My Car is really good, have you heard? And I can now claim to have seen Uncle Vanya!
Having a soul-tuning, life-affirming session with a psychic medium
Going to the ballet with your girlies on a hot summer evening
Winslow Homer at the Met
The best hack I’ve come across in a while because it is free and very effective: soaking a banana peel in a jar overnight then using the potassium-enriched water to feed your houseplants. My monstera is shining like never before. I learned this trick in Evil Witches, a newsletter I highly recommend.
The day-old surprise box from Ovenly
This turtle, who I am channeling. Coming out of quarantine liiiiiike:
