I Left the Job. Apparently the VP Came With Me.

My husband asks me some version of the same questions all the time.

“How are you?”

“Do you need anything?”

“Is there anything I can do to help you?”

They're simple questions. Not as easy for me to answer. I am getting better though. The other day while we were walking, we were talking about what the rest of our day might look like. Then the week. Then the month.

Then he asked me what I was looking forward to. That one was harder. I tried to explain why. Looking forward is a muscle I'm still learning how to use. For a long time, my life was consumed by what was directly in front of me. The next emergency. The next problem. The next thing that needed my attention.

I was very good at now. Not this now. A different kind. The kind where you're constantly scanning for what needs to happen next. Who needs something. What might go wrong. What needs to be fixed before it does. Tomorrow would get here eventually. I'd deal with it then.

I left my VP job months ago. Apparently no one told the VP in my head.

I told my husband I'm farther from the VP I once was. I'm slowly settling into this version of myself. I like this version. I choose this version. But I'm not 100% there yet.

We kept walking. And then, I spent the rest of the day bringing both versions of myself along. It started with my husband getting out of the shower and having a brief disagreement with gravity. I caught him. I'll always catch him.

Then we headed to a homecoming parade where our twelve-year-old granddaughter was marching with the high school band. We got there early. We found the perfect spot under a shade tree and claimed it. Apparently the VP upstairs still appreciates good logistics.

We were sitting there talking, enjoying ourselves, when I looked up. There they were. A sea of little people heading directly toward us. Fourth graders. Lots of them. They had bags ready for the candy that would be thrown during the parade, and I could hear them talking about saving room for the fifth graders.

I assessed the situation. I have been this height since fifth grade. If all these children stood up, there was a very real possibility I wasn't going to be able to see over them. My husband found this considerably funnier than I did.

I began looking for options. I found a very large rock. I stood on it. Problem solved. Then I saw him. A kid with a camera. I recognized him immediately. Not the actual kid.

Me.

A much younger version of me, camera in hand, scanning for the perfect location to get the shot. He came over and asked if he could stand beside me because I'd found such a good spot. Of course he could. Then I stepped down and let him have it.

A little nod to my past self. Go get the shot, kid.

It was a lovely moment. Right up until the parade started and my granddaughter appeared in the third row of the first group. And I missed the shot. Apparently personal growth has consequences. So I took off running.

I got farther up the road, found another opening and managed to get some video. It wasn't the greatest video I've ever taken. But I got it. And somewhere in there, although I didn't recognize it yet, was exactly what I'd been trying to explain to my husband that morning.

The old instinct was still there. Assess. Adjust. Find another way. Get the shot. But nothing terrible was going to happen if I didn't. There was no emergency. No customer. No deadline. No one waiting for me to fix anything. There was just a twelve-year-old girl marching down the street and a grandmother who wanted to see her.

Same instinct. Very different life.

I didn't stop to think about any of that then. There were Skittles to acquire. As we walked back toward our original location, something flew in my direction and landed nearby. A bag of Skittles. I love Skittles. I looked at the bag. I assessed the distance. I checked my surroundings. Most importantly, I made sure there wasn't a child going for it.

Clear.

Apparently decades of situational awareness can also be used for candy. I skipped out to claim my prize. My husband was behind me asking what I was doing.

“It's Skittles!”

I swooped down, grabbed the bag and celebrated my victory. Then I looked up. There was a police officer standing about a foot away watching the entire operation. He was laughing his ass off. I held up the bag.

“It's Skittles. Gotta have my Skittles.”

“Of course you do,” he said. “See any chocolate for me?”

We both laughed.

My husband shook his head. Then another bag of Skittles came flying toward me.

DOUBLE VICTORY.

At this point both the police officer and my husband were shaking their heads. I had two bags of Skittles. I didn't care.

After the parade we headed to lunch at a BBQ place we'd been wanting to try. Apparently they were very grateful for the opportunity to handle our buns. Their words, not mine. Boldly printed on a box sitting behind the counter. There was also an enormous glass pig overseeing the operation, because apparently the day had developed a theme and I wasn't about to interfere with it.

After lunch, we stopped at the pharmacy to pick up a prescription. We left with the necessary items and an unexpected five-foot skeleton for our patio chair.

His name is Herb. Obviously.

Later that afternoon we headed to the movies to see a story I'd already read and was excited to watch on screen. Somewhere between the Skittles, the handled buns, Herb and the movie, the question from that morning came back to me.

What are you looking forward to?

I'd had such a hard time answering it. Maybe because I thought the answer needed to be bigger. A trip. A goal. Something next month. Something worthy of anticipation. But I had already spent the entire day looking forward to things. Seeing my granddaughter march. Getting the picture. Trying the BBQ place. Going to the movie.

None of it was particularly important. That might have been exactly why I hadn't recognized it. For so much of my life, looking ahead meant anticipating what needed to be done. There was always another responsibility coming. Another problem. Another goal. Another thing to prepare for. I knew how to anticipate those.

What I'm learning now is something different. Anticipation doesn't always have to be preparation. Sometimes it's just wanting to get to the next good thing. Even if the next good thing is very small. Maybe especially then.

That's when I thought again about the kid with the camera. For a second, I'd seen a younger version of myself standing there. Focused. Scanning. Looking for the best position. Determined to get the shot.

I understood her because she isn't actually gone.

I still scan a crowd. I still find the best position. I still make a Plan B when Plan A fails. I still assess a situation before I act, although admittedly the stakes have fallen considerably when the situation involves fun-size candy.

I didn't leave those parts of myself behind when I left the job. I brought them with me. What's changing is what I'm asking them to do.

They don't have to keep me three steps ahead of the next emergency anymore. They can find me a good spot at a parade. Get me down the street in time to see my granddaughter. Apparently secure two bags of Skittles. And sometimes, I can tell them they aren't needed at all.

I can step off the rock.

That's what feels different. I'm farther from the VP I once was. I'm settling into this version of me. I like her. I choose her. I'm just not 100% there yet.

I'm not sure I need to be.

Maybe I was thinking about it wrong when I imagined some distance between the woman I was and the woman I'm becoming. The woman I used to be didn't disappear when I left the job. She came with me. She just doesn't have to run everything anymore.

Sometimes I can give away the rock.

Sometimes I can miss the perfect shot.

Sometimes I can spend an afternoon looking forward to absolutely nothing important. A parade. BBQ. A movie. A five-foot skeleton named Herb.

And, if a bag of Skittles hits the pavement, both versions of me are going after it.