It occurs to me that I will likely bore people to tears with odd little snippets every single day, but. Well. That’s what the internet is for, innit?
This morning I’d like to talk about plans gone awry. You see, I am a (somewhat lax) participant in the lunch phenomenon known as bento. The tiny, lovely lunchboxes, the inclusion of actual food in said boxes (from the person whose past favorite lunch was a bag of Cheetos and a granola bar), etc. etc. Now, I’ve been rather remiss in doing any such delightful lunch-packing lately, and today was the day I was going to do it again, properly. I rinse and get my rice on the stove, get the water going for my tea, start peeling carrots. (It’s all very productive for 6:45 in the ante meridiems, yes?) The tea kettle whistles, and as I’m reaching for a mug, my vision goes rather fuzzy, darkish, you know. I’ve had this happen before. I get a good grip on the counter with one hand, get the mug settled with the other. Somewhere in the vicinity of reaching for the tea kettle, I apparently lose my grip not only on the counter, but on consciousness. Apparently I fell rather gently (which is always nice) because while I feel where my head hit the floor, it doesn’t hurt. I did, however, in the process, knock my rice pot over, and I just haven’t got the mental wherewithal to start over with that.
I’m not particularly concerned about the fainting part. Mostly I’m vexed because I’d had my hopes up (and maybe that’s telling–my hopes were up regarding the packing of my lunch? but in my defense, I had a bloody nice bit of leftover steak and some roasted broccoli from last night that were going to go with said rice) and now things have gone pear-shaped. I don’t like pears.
(Honestly. Nothing against those who do, but I just can’t get my palate around the durn things.)
I don’t like pears, and I like my plans going pear-shaped even less. Ever since I was a child, I cannot stomach disappointment. It’s not so much the problem of things changing–that’s okay. But I’m definitely of the Colonel Hannibal Smith (you remember–George Peppard from The A-Team) way of thinking: I love it when a plan comes together. And I am disordinately distraught, I think, when it doesn’t.
I should probably work on that.
Reading: Moab is My Washpot by Stephen Fry
What an intensely charming and addictive read. His section on his absent musical ability is–well. Brilliant. But you’ll have to read it for yourself.