Eating Soup

[photo courtesy chillhiro]

The first two hours of my morning have included:

  • 4 counts of Uncontrollable Crying
  • 3 counts of Frustrating Customer Service
  • 2 counts of Irresponsible Overspending
  • 1 count of Unexpected Snow
  • at least 17 counts of Melodramatic Ex-Texting*
  • and 1 hell of a headache

It's been a Day, but it's only a day.  The thing about being twenty-seven, and not seventeen, is that I Basically Get It.

I get that I am not crazy.  When I walk through the snow at eight o'clock on a weekend morning to stock up on 37 kinds of soup, I get that I am not crazy, or irresponsible, or starting a black-market bisque operation.  The unromantic fact is that my period is starting tomorrow and I am nesting.  I am stocking my cupboard with chipotle corn chowder and creamy potato leek because my primordial brain is preparing for the bouncing baby girl that thankjesusgodandmary is a figment of my uterine imagination and not a real thing.

I get that it is mostly in my head.  When thrice in a two-hour window I am faced with an Evil Being of the Netherworld hell-bent on ruining my life through a cool combination of an unfriendly hello and incorrect change, I get that it is mostly in my head.  I get that most baristas and cashiers and bank tellers are actually not Evil Beings of the Netherworld and that if I seem to be encountering several of them in a row, it is probably my fault.

I get that it is temporary.  When my world is crumbling like a Chips Ahoy under a preschooler's light-up L.A. Gear, I get that it is temporary.  I get that tomorrow, or next week, or five minutes from now, this will all seem like nonsense, and I'll be happy as a clam at high water.  Break-ups are hard.  Winter is hard.  Being poor is hard, and starting a new job is hard, and once a month for approximately three days everything in the whole world is hard.  But winter is temporary, and summer is too, and so is love and headaches and life itself.

So let's all eat some soup.

* can we call this 'exting'?