Sandra Breaks Out

Everyone over the age of fifty had one. Her husband, her friends. Everyone except Sandra.

 Sandra didn’t care much about her husband’s bucket list, but she hadn’t given up on their marriage—yet.

So she feigned interest and asked, “What’s on yours, dear?”

“I want to see the Taj Mahal.” Bob steepled his fingers in a mystical way.

Sandra thought, “Pompous asshole,” but replied, “How lovely.”

She couldn’t repress a snicker. He’d never lever himself out of his reclining chair to get himself a snack, let alone venture abroad.

 She was saved by a pocket buzz. Her best friend Amy was calling to suggest meeting for coffee later. Sandra agreed, then asked, “Do you have a bucket list?”

Amy’s alto grew husky. “I’ve always wanted to climb to Base Camp at Mount Everest.”

Sandra dug her fingernails into her palm to keep herself from chortling. Amy hadn’t worked out in ages and one of her knees was wonky. She had as much chance of getting to Base Camp as she did twerking with Justin Bieber.

Bob interrupted their chat. “I’m starving. When’s dinner?” He didn’t even look up from the television.

“Soon, dear.” Sandra hung up and began to bang pots around with more vigour than necessary.

 While the cozy aroma of roasting chicken filled their small kitchen, she pondered the question marks that floated within her soul. She didn’t crave an exotic trip. She simply yearned—a keen, clean ache of wanting something more.

But what was it she craved? Freedom? From this humdrum existence?

As the chicken crackled and browned, she realised one thing for sure. She wanted to lose that deadweight Bob.

And now, when he called, “Hey, hon, get me another beer,” with the certainty of prompt service, Sandra snapped.

At first, it was the quietest rebellion imaginable.

“Ff-f-f-f.” This was most unsatisfactory, as snaps go. “Ff-f-f-f,” she tried again.

She paused, wiped a bead of sweat from her lined forehead, and made another attempt.

“Hey, where’s my beer?” Bob hollered.

“Fuck it,” Sandra whispered. This time, no hesitation. She savoured a sensation of power, laced with glee. “Fuck it!” she said again, this time out loud.

“What?” Bob yelled from his comfy couch. “And where’s my drink?”

“Try the Taj-fucking-Mahal.” With a lilt in her voice and a song in her heart, Sandra abandoned her chicken mid-roast, shrugged on her old jacket and her practical, woolly hat, grabbed her purse, and slammed the front door behind her.

Sandra charged downtown in the invigorating evening air, feet slapping the pavement. What did she want to do? Not in a few months or years, but this very minute. What dreams could she fulfill?

A bucket list sounded way too final, and Sandra had a lot more living to do. But, maybe, just maybe, it could be a fuck-it list.

A shiver of naughty excitement rippled down her spine.

 As she passed the first row of stores, she paused to look in a window filled with bright hats. Absently, she touched the sad relic perched atop her own head.

At that moment, her friend Amy yoo-hooed outside the grocer’s and crossed the street to join her. She toted a bag overflowing with veggies, but a chocolate smear above her mouth betrayed her. When she saw Sandra admiring the hats, Amy pursed her Snickered lips.

“We’re too old for those styles. We’d make such figures of ourselves.”

Sandra pulled a tissue out of her pocket. As she dabbed away her friend’s chocolate smear, she whispered something under her breath.

“What’s that?” Amy asked.

“Ff-f-f-f it.”

“Speak up. You know I have a hearing issue.”

Sandra placed her hands on her hips. She raised her chin. “Fuck it!”

“WHAT did you say?”

 “I said, fuck it! I’m buying a hat. A fluffy, pink one. And not shell pink, either. I’m going full-on Barbie.”

Amy tried to shrink back against the outer wall of the store, but Sandra tugged her inside. She popped a vivid chartreuse hat on Amy’s head.

“You’re gorgeous!”

Amy, trembling like a mouse who has just seen its reflection in a tabby’s eyes, squared her shoulders. She looked in the mirror.

“Yeah, not bad,” she said. “It’s not meant for someone my age, but—”

“Fuck it!” Sandra interrupted. “I’m buying it for you, and this pink one for me”

 “What will Bob think?”

“Fuck Bob,” Sandra said. “I’m tired of his shit.”

“Oh, dear, really? You two have always seemed so happy.”

Sandra patted Amy’s arm, like a mom comforting a child who has learned of his parents’ impending divorce.

“Bob’s been happy. I would be, too, if I had someone waiting on me hand and foot. Wouldn’t you?”

Amy nodded. She stood up straighter and gave her chartreuse hat a rakish tilt.

Sandra slapped some bills on the counter. “Our new lives begin right here and right now.”

“If you say so.” Amy’s voice was soft but hopeful.

“We’ll lose our old baggage. Do new, exciting things.”

Arm in arm and with their jaunty hats aloft, they sashayed out the door. Amy no longer favoured her bad knee.

“But what are you going to do about Bob? And don’t use that awful word!”

“That’s the zillion-dollar question. I’ll call you when I’ve decided.”

The two friends parted ways. As Sandra entered her home, the smell of incinerated poultry was almost as infuriating as the ratcheting sound of Bob’s snores.

“All I need is courage,” she said to herself. “And to remember that for every loss there will be a greater gain.”

She passed the kitchen, ignoring the dirty dishes and pots. She tiptoed by slumbering Bob in his padded chair. Upstairs, she opened the closet and yanked out her suitcase. It was time to improve the balance sheet of her life.

The first thing she threw into her suitcase was her new pink hat.