The Last Straw

​Lake George. Stunning, pristine, an Adirondack jewel, strutting its stuff like a blue-green supermodel. Chris grew up here, spending childhood summers on or around the lake. Me? I grew up in the high desert they call Denver. No lakes, no boating summers, no boating DNA. Translation: I don’t drive the boat. My role on Lake George is simple: passenger princess with snacks extraordinaire.

We arrived and said hello to his mom then began the ritual of removing the covers and getting the Cobalt dream boat voyage ready. Launching without a hitch, soaking up the rays and the post card worthy scene unfolding. Glorious! About ten minutes into our voyage toward the Narrows--BEEP BEEP BEEP—loud warning alarms shattered the serenity. We limped to Boats by George, where his loyal techs plugged in and tried decoding the electronic tantrum. Not so easy. More time would be needed. So Mr. George himself chauffeured us—in his brand-new Jeep Wagoneer (NICE, leather still smelling like money)—back to mom’s. Nothing like a chauffeur named George to complete your day of busted best ever boat day expectations.

As if that weren’t enough, we reloaded the cooler into the car, only to find--click, nothing. Dead battery. After a few frantic calls, we secured a ride for the fifty minute trip home with a very nice and chatty Uber driver. After calls to the dealer and online research, the vehicle verdict: faulty tender. This particular car hadn’t been driven in months, and apparently the fancy “battery tender” was more like a “battery quitter.”  Solution: good old fashioned jumpstart, tomorrow. In the meantime, how's Chris? Frazzled, pissed, muttering like a man personally betrayed by machinery. Me? Calm as a cucumber spa retreat, sipping my imaginary mocktail. Because here’s the truth: when it isn’t your responsibility—when the mechanical failure isn’t yours to fix—it’s a helluva lot easier to stay chill.

Field Guide Rule #42: If you don’t use it, you lose it—or pay the price for re-entry. Applies equally to boats, cars, concerts, vacations, weddings and sometimes expectations.

Mechanical failures I could shrug off. Emotional expectations? Not so easy. A few days later, my mother broke the news: she wasn’t well enough for the big road trip I’d been planning for her 80th and my 60th birthdays. A once-in-a-lifetime adventure: driving from Colorado to Wyoming, re-connecting with her longtime friend Nancy at the family's ranch outside Cody—ranch house chic hospitality at its finest. A few private special nites at a bed and breakfast in town to facilitate... wait for it, the big one: attending the annual Wild West Arts Fest and Buffalo Bill Art Show, the centerpiece of Cody’s art scene. For Mom, art is her passion, her oxygen, her daily joy (I dig seeing her face as she takes in all the over the top western art!) And on the drive back, we’d stay two nights at the original Old Faithful Inn, revisiting Yellowstone—a place I hadn’t seen since I was twelve, when we made a similar trip and Mom was behind the wheel. This was supposed to be the big adventure stamped in our memory book. Instead, it became another field guide lesson in expectations—plotted, packed, and promised in my head, and that’s exactly where it stayed.

I dreamed it up right after Chris’s dad died suddenly—a wake-up call about family time and intimacy, about not waiting too long with the people we love most. I thought I was being gallant, maybe a little late, but ready to pour my love and attention into making memories. And then—denied. Reality check on aging. Reality check on timing. Reality check on expectations that had been polished until they gleamed like a glass ornament, pretty but breakable.

Ready the crash. Unacknowledged expectations, stacked and simmering all week, finally exploded. The little disappointments—the rose-killer virus, the bashed boat day, the flower-knoshing ravenous deer, the small nagging partner disagreements, the missed magical moments, the frayed nerves—detonated into something bigger. And then the trip cancellation yanked the rug out from under me. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Remember that game from the 70s? The one where you load little straws in each side of the camel’s basket until it collapses? Yeah, that was me. A small argument that morning was the straw. Mom’s cancellation was the basket.

Enter: full-scale meltdown, stage left. A private emotional greatest-hits reel on fast repeat: anger, fury, blame, resentment → disappointment, grief → rinse and repeat. The flow was brutal and fast: “How could they? How dare they? Why me?” I screamed louder, longer, and more guttural than I can ever remember. I grieved all the tender intimate moments I missed, all the caring and support I didn’t experience. Crying, raging, wailing at the world. Beating my chest (okay, maybe just metaphorically, but close). I was the Greek chorus, the banshee, the toddler in Target, and the boat alarm all rolled into one. For a woman who didn’t express emotions for decades, I was having a helluva banner day. Cathartic chaos. Emotional fireworks. Not my proudest moment—but, damn, it was honest and I was alone in the house.

Here’s the twist: I’m proud of myself. It took courage to stare those delusional expectations in the face and let them rip, messy and unfiltered—even if no one else was there to witness it. Yes, the tree falling in the woods makes a sound. And yes, a woman screaming in her living room does too. It took a couple of days to recuperate—emotional hangovers are real, and this one was Olympic-level. It was physically exhausting, like I’d been training for some bizarre CrossFit event called “Expectations Recovery Triathlon.” But in the end, I came out lighter. I didn’t trap those feelings like squatters in my chest. I let them roar, and then I let them go. Practice makes better!
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I’m clearer now: there’s a cycle of emotions that rises whenever expectations are missed. First the anger, then the blame, then the grief. On repeat.

And here’s the bonus: I noticed the pattern. The build-up, the straws, the basket. I can see it now, spot it sooner, and meet it with kindness, openness, and even gratitude. Not by pretending I don’t have expectations, but by noticing them—and my reactions—when they do or don’t come to fruition. The emotional release is astounding. I can loosen their grip, let them flow, and dissolve before they morph into banshee-level meltdowns. That’s progress. Maybe not Instagram-pretty, but deeply human.
Live. Love. Laugh. And let the fuck go.

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