Recently my husband and I were able to slip away for an overnight to celebrate his birthday. A leisurely drive, dinner and whole night without the children (22 hours, to be precise – and, by the way, it was FABULOUS).

A great opportunity to break out his new GPS system for the car – one of those little things you plug in and it tells you how to get wherever you are going.

So, I plugged in the addresses, and off we went. Snow still covering the ground, beautiful mountain terrain; grown-up conversation without any interruptions. Aahhhh, lovely.

We’re about half way to our destination, and our stern little school-marm guide tells us to make a right, onto a highway. But my husband, who has been to this town before, says “No . . . . that’s not right, that’s not going to get us there the fastest way.”

Believe the husband (my best friend, father of my children, the most patient, loving man ever – and he’s driving) or our little faceless voice?

Husband. All the way.

So, instead of right, we go left. And she is NOT happy about it.

“RECALCULATING” . . . she says – (sternly, I might add).

And we continue our trek. And she keeps interjecting. “Turn right” . . . . “turn left” . . . . But these directions make no sense in light of our current path. My husband, he’s been here before – he knows where we are going. I’m just happy to be with him, along for the ride. We keep ignoring . . . she keeps uttering . . . “RECALCULATING.”

At about the fifth “RECALCULATING” it becomes a running joke – we burst into laughter every time she says it (which is, often). But it comes into my mind that this is a very precise metaphor for my life.

Graduate high school, go to business school, get the exact job I wanted. And it stinks. RECALCULATING.

Fall in love; move away; job of my dreams; but my love, he has no work. So we move. RECALCULATING.

Wake up one morning and realize, I love the idea of this man, but not the man. He is cruel; childish; our whole life is a sham. I am going to be 25 years old and divorced. RECALCULATING.

Roanoke. Who wants to live in Roanoke? Meet an amazing man; fall desperately, totally in love. Marry; have 3 children and decide that this is a wonderful place to raise a family, and a beautiful place to live. RECALCULATING.

Husband has a great job and can support us. I’m going to be a stay-at-home Mom. Raise the children, bake the best cookies; have a fabulous, clean, organized home. The perfect garden. And then literally, one day, I wake up and say – “seriously, this is it?” RECALCULATING.

Take a yoga teacher training. Going to teach yoga only to children – I’m not going to teach adults. Teach a volunteer class to a group of amazing women; and decide to not only teach adults, but open a yoga studio – (seriously?!). RECALCULATING.

And so it goes. This is my life. Making decisions, choices; and then changing the rules. Being flexible, open; going with the flow, but swimming like hell. it’s working for me right now.

My little voice, it’s not sweet and sexy, like my husband says his Bluetooth’s voice is in his car – but it’s not as stern as our little GPS lady. It’s a kinder, gentler voice; sometimes it is mine, and sometimes it is my teachers. It offers guidance, suggestions, directions.

But at the end of the day, it’s ALL on me.




5 Replies to “RECALCULATING”

  1. Kate

    We gave our GPS voice a British accent. then we made her speak Mandarin. Then Spanish. And she still tells us to RECALCULATE in any language. Sometimes you listen, sometimes you don't. I love to hear that your voice is gentle. That's something we all need.

  2. boomerchop

    Wonderful blog Jill. My wife and I were discussing it on our morning walk and remembering all of our recalculations. And, as you know, we're currently recalculating for the next phase. Thanks for pointing out that life is all about change.

  3. Jessica Hedrick

    this one made me laugh out loud, really. It is in perfect harmony with my life right now. I can hear your voice say "recalculating" in my head and it is comical, sweet and opportunistic all at the same time.


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