Imagine — in slow motion, if you will — a crazed 37-year-old woman, her face contorted in frustration as she utters a guttural war cry and heaves a cracked and gushing 4L milk jug out the back door of her house…
Who is this woman?
Doesn’t it feel, at least some days, that the world is out to get you?
I was feeling okay this morning. Not great, but okay.
I woke early and took a shower first thing. I hate showers, so I was pretty proud of myself.
I drank coffee, which somewhat eased the tension headache I felt coming on.
I homeschooled the kids. A fairly saintly job.
Then, at 9:45 a.m., I hopped in the truck to brave a trip to Superstore. Naturally, I was nervous, having recently been self-diagnosed with CIMA (COVID-Induced Market Anxiety). Ever since the toilet paper hoarders crawled out of the woodwork, my silly brain associates grocery shopping with unpleasantries such as uncertainty, confusion, masked strangers, and a foreboding sense that we’re living in a dystopia.
However, I was in for a little surprise…
Within two minutes of entering the supermarket, I met a large, tan-coloured, inflatable dinosaur.
The dinosaur, pushing its own cart loaded with items, greeted me with a friendly wave and a giggle as it waddled past.
I can only assume that the person occupying the costume was either:
- an angel of light, come to cheer anxious shoppers such as me; or
- someone who couldn’t get a hold of a real hazmat suit.
And although my head continued to throb while I shopped, the dino-angel made me smile.
Two hours later, I arrived home with a truck full of groceries and a doozy of a headache. I was tired, hungry, and dreaded putting the groceries away.
Don’t you hate putting the groceries away?
I hauled bags from the back of the truck and set them down on the mudroom floor inside the house.
On my fifth load, I carried a 4L plastic milk jug. Hoping to save myself a few steps, I skipped the mudroom floor and, instead, reached up and around the corner, and plunked the jug on the stairs leading to the kitchen.
As I turned to grab another load, I heard a – BANG! – followed by the sound of gurgling.
Maniacally, I lunged for the jug, which was now gushing milk through a ginormous crack that ran from lid to bottom. My only thought was to MAKE IT STOP!
I think you know what happened next: I hucked the jug out the door. It landed – SPLAT! – on the garden patio. Six dollars of freshly purchased dairy product, now muddled with dirt, flowed freely into the grass.
Cry Me a River
Inside, I chucked shoes and jackets – all willy-nilly – across the mudroom so that I could yank the area rug away from the milk that was now dripping down the kitchen steps and pooling on the mudroom floor.
I growled and stomped and cried.
Until I heard another unwelcome sound: the steady dribble of a milk-fall flowing through the cracks of our poorly-built, 80-year-old, wooden steps, and down to the dusty cellar below.
“I’m going to be cleaning this up for an hour!” I shrieked.
I am seriously trying to take one day at a time.
I am seriously trying to embrace the sudden changes that have overtaken our lives.
I am seriously trying to STAY POSITIVE, for shit’s sake!
Yet, some days, it just feels like the world is out to get me. I know it’s not but it feels like it. And,
Sometimes, you just have to throw your frustrations sky high, then melt to the floor and have a good cry.Tweet
Don’t cry over spilt milk?
It’s my milk jug, and
I’ll cry if I want to:
You would cry, too,
if it happened to you.
With love (even if I’m losing it today),