Behold the crappy symphony that likes to knock about the brain

A lifetime ago, I was holed up on Cape Cod and in utter despondency as I went through a cold-blooded obstacle course of divorce proceedings. Yeah. There wasn’t much joy found in the homegrown distractions that were thrown at me: not bricklaying, not going for a seaside run, heck not even ice cream. I tried it all but found no relief. Life was trending downward and there was nothing anyone could offer to make me feel otherwise. Nothing that is, until the afternoon that Dad dipped his hand into our kitchen’s jumbo size junk drawer.

An apt depiction of how my kinfolk view life.

My family is not much of the Hey-let’s-wash-things-over-with-an-illusive-silver-lining sort of people. And anyway, I had created this mess myself and as far as anyone understood, it was simply a matter of me gutting through the experience. Intellectually I accepted this sentence— but at that space in time, my emotions trumped logic and thus dictated how I’d process things. Dad tacitly understood my predicament, and perhaps it was for this reason that he sought a tool that might slap some perspective into me. His weapon of choice would be the junk drawer calculator.

He held the thing up close to turn it on, and then he held it further away before methodically punching at the blocky number buttons. “What if…” he paused until arriving at the ‘equals’ button, “that at the start of each day you were given $1,440?” He looked up from his work and showed the number to me.

I eyeballed him with contempt for whatever wisdom he was trying to impart. I was working on staying miserable. Dad ignored me and continued on, studying the sum of his calculation, “You get that money, but if by the end of the day you didn’t spend it all, then it would be gone altogether.”

I often get too fixated on what might be ahead for me.

My thoughts were so sullied by breakup gunpowder residue that I could only stare at the wall behind the calculator and conjure no clue as to where he was going with this.

“Gone?” I finally repeated, most certainly with a tone of irritation.

“Yes— gone,” he affirmed. “What would you do?”

An uncomfortable silence and then finally:

“I’d want to spend as much of that money as possible,” I muttered. This was stupid. In reality my meager life savings were being slowly paid out to finance the end of my marriage. I’d be getting no such allotment at any point in the future. “So what are you trying to get at?” I finally asked Dad. I’ve never had patience for Socratic teaching.

“Megan,” he exclaimed, cutting through my obstinacy, “Each minute of your day is like a dollar. Nothing is promised. Today is exactly what you’ve got, and you need to decide how you are going to spend it.”

And with that he put the calculator back in the crap-filled drawer and left me to ponder his impromptu economics lesson.  I blinked through my self-pity and allowed his words to sink in. I was still feeling pretty shitty, but somehow something had begun to change.

J’existe. Sometimes the words they put on the back of the road signs are just as helpful.

Fast forward to the present day, and all these years later I’m often reminded of this exchange. It just struck me again over the weekend when I caught up with some dear friends whom I seldom see. I first got to know them while they lived in Paris, and now we were meeting up there again as they had returned to live in the City of Light for an incredible second stint.

“I feel like the first time our family was in Paris, we were more like tourists. On this time around, we are really living here,” the wife told me as we spent an afternoon taking in various forms of coffee, wine, and chic magasin.

I understood what she was talking about. I can’t say that I know it for sure, but she and her husband on both occasions of living in France have really seemed to capture each day and enjoy whatever life happened to throw their way. Be it hosting a Thanksgiving for their French friends, or taking their (now) three kids to their local café for all to enjoy planche of charcuterie, they didn’t appear to be wasting many of their day’s minutes. Her comment made me smile. It made me think once again of the calculator. Dad’s lesson was sound.

Paris on Sunday started with a run that had an endpoint of a boulangerie. L’essentiel. And the rest of the day was just as good.

I feel as though I’ve come a long way in my life—both in terms of planning my future (whatever that may resemble)— but more importantly, in valuing the moments that are ticking away right this very second. After spending Saturday with my friends, on my last day in Paris I was free to do whatever I wanted, sans programme. I could have sulked about how I was bidding farewell to this wonderful city once again, and how I was unsure when next I’d return. But I didn’t do that. Younger Megan probably would have. Instead, I took a page from those who are truly living in Paris, I calculated the minutes on Dad’s calculator, and then did things that made me feel like I really did spend every last damn dollar of that day.

Tomorrow the payout begins anew.