My babe is nine months old, and husband and I are trying to create more space for me to take breaks for a few hours a week. The only thing is, I’m really bad at them. I feel pressure for said breaks to be perfect, full of rejuvenation and respite, or at least extremely productive. It’s like how I feel on a holiday: I’m supposed to be having fun, making memories, being fabulous, and most importantly, ENJOYING THE FREAKING MOMENT.

Ugh.

This is what my “break” looked like yesterday.

As I’m leaving, already running late, I couldn’t find the driving directions I’d printed days earlier and put in my bag (haircut was in Hollywood which might as well be Hong Kong with my sense of direction).

Start cursing and try to print directions again, this time from Bing instead of Google (for no good reason). Curse some more when I think the printer’s not working.

Turns out the printer was working, so now I have two copies of directions as I leave and I’m already pissed off.

Get lost. Directions I printed (twice) are fucked. Call the hair place to get directions, which I can’t understand because I’m not an auditory learner.

*Note: Found Google Maps directions I’d printed days earlier in my bag this morning. And THOSE DIRECTIONS were correct. Of course.

Now I’m really late.

Pull over. Primal scream, “I JUST WANT TO GET MY HAIR CUT!!!”

Bash the address into my iPhone, which gives me more fucked directions, but somehow I get to my destination.

There’s no parking, of course, but I find something a block away, and it’s 2 hour free street parking (bonus!). I’m sweating.

Like the stylist, although she’s twenty-five (I’m experiencing that thing where most of the people I meet are younger than me rather than older than me when it used to be the other way around-yea, it’s happening). We talk about boyfriends and break-ups and I feel very, very old.

Husband calls (haircut is taking longer than expected-feel SUPER guilty like I’ve abandoned my family). Bottle drama. Leaking leaking leaking. Babe’s in crib complaining and hubs is afraid he’s hungry. Ends up defrosting another bottle and all is well.

Call husband on the way home. Babe is still asleep so I decide to stop at Trader Joe’s to do my “big shop.” It is a fucking zoo. No shopping carts, a bazillion people pushing and shoving, etc.

I take a moment to hate Los Angeles.

Get home with bags of groceries to find no parking spots on the street. Lug $118 worth of food on my person one city block. Proceed to put groceries away, wash lunch dishes, and start a load of laundry before babe wakes up. Oh, and I yell at husband because he asked me how my break was.

Yea. Bad at breaks.