Chapter Title: The Day Before You Came by ABBA

I stood under the hot water feeling only slightly guilty for using the boutique resorts’ precious water supply. Water and electricity are high commodities in Haiti and I was wasting them trying to wash two weeks of sweat and grime off me. It wasnt working. This was my second shower in the three hours since I arrived at the resort. I truly wanted to feel guilty but my American brain had taken over as I was greeted with little bottles of shampoo and conditioner that smelled like lavender and soaps wrapped with tiny bows. 

    I was well aware of the irony of spending money on the resort considering my last two weeks was spent at one of the poorest communities in the Western Hemisphere with minimal water and no electricity but, in reality, one of my best friends had sprung for the room with her soon-to-be-ex-husbands hidden “travel” money on a pre-paid bitcoin Visa card. She had made sure my room was stocked with miniature bottles of red wine and I loved her even more for it. Of course, the room was registered under the name Arthur Dimmesadle because even scorned women have a sense of humor. I graciously accepted her offer to cover my room and wine but I would have spent the money anyway. I am spoiled and the idea of a 14 hour travel day with two weeks of dirt doesn’t appeal to me. And, I truly love lavender shampoo and soap wrapped with bows. 

    All of this is swirling through my head as I got out of the shower. I am generally disorganized and a hot mess but I have carefully and lovingly kept one casual dress, bra and underwear free from Haiti sweat and dirt in a plastic bag so I can wear clean clothes on the plane. My first task when I arrived at the resort was to release them from the bag and hang them in the shower in hopes the steam would make them somewhat presentable. It sorta worked. 

    I debated. The resort was small with only 12 rooms, six on each side separated with an outdoor dining area and a patio set. I really wanted to go out to the dining area and relax with a glass of wine but it would require a clean set of clothes. Did I waste my only clean clothes on a glass of a slightly chilled shiraz on my last night in Haiti or did I stay in my air conditioned room and take another shower? I only debated for a minute as the option of better wine than what was stocked in my room won.  I stepped into my last Victoria Secret underwear and matching black bra and pulled my black dress from Old Navy over my head. Simple and clean. Clean. That’s really all that mattered. Clean. 

    My hair. Oh my goodness. My bipolar hair that at the tender age of 42 has gone into it’s own identity crisis. It wants to be wavy, but not curly, or straight, but flat.  Actually, after 42 years of horrible hair,  it can finally be great. Great curly with lots of work. Great straight with lots of work. Both looks require three things I didn’t have. More product than the TSA requirements of 3 oz, a Chi flatiron (yes, Chi) or a Revlon blow dryer with diffuser attachment. For two weeks I have had my hair in a ponytail so I figured I would scrunch the best I could with the limited amount of hair spray I had left.  The end result was passable hair were the curls were actually glued into place. 

    Walking out of my room I was again stunned with the humidity and heat. I had only been back in air conditioning for three hours and my body quickly adjusted to the 67 temperature I set when I walked in. I did feel truly guilty for that but I didn’t turn it back up. 

    The owner of the resort was friendly but distant as he poured me my wine. We made small talk until the reasonable time came for him to excuse himself. I watched as he eyed the wine and then back to me. He seemed distrustful that I wouldn’t drink the entire bottle (in hindsight, good call). I offered to just pay for the bottle. He agreed and told me to call if I needed anything else but otherwise, he would retire for the day. 

    And, here, at that moment is when my life changed. 

    “It would be a shame to see that bottle go to waste and be drunk alone.” I heard a voice say. 

    You know when something happens in your life and you count time differently? Before the divorce, after the divorce. Before the lottery winning, after the lottery winning? Before the meteor struck my house and destroyed everything that I ever knew in one fateful blow and I didn’t even know what was happening. Yea, like that.

    Before James Bond. After James Bond. Simple. Before James Bond I was an ABBA song. 

    After James Bond. 

    After James Bond I was dying short hair jet black in a bathroom sink of a truck stop in a small town somewhere in Texas with a loaded 9 mm tucked into the waistband of my jeans. And, ready to use it. 

    Damn you bottles of red wine. Damn you hot and sticky July night in Haiti. Damn you boring life and tangled hair and all those things that led up to this moment in a truck stop in Texas. 

    And damn me for enjoying it so very much.