Don’t sweat the small stuff.
Buying apples notwithstanding, those seem to be good words
to live by, since there will always be more than enough of the big stuff to
worry about. (“We’re having a child? Huh! I’m sure the expenses involved with
such an endeavor will be trivial!”*)
One area of small-stuff-non-sweatiness that I excel at,
ironically, has to do with socks. (Are sweaty feet jokes funny? Or just plain
gross? I’m leaning towards the latter…) You see, I own quite a few pair of
Hanes socks, and this collection is divided evenly between socks that have a
thin red line and “Hanes” printed on them, and socks that have a slightly thicker
red line and “Hanes” printed on them in bold. Thus, it’s not a rare occurrence when
I’ll look down and notice that I’m wearing mismatched socks.
This is where not sweating the small stuff comes in. I
mean, they’re just socks! Who would notice that anyway? (“He’s perfect for the
job…except his socks don’t match! Release the hounds!”) I figure if mismatched
socks are the biggest thing I have to worry about, then I’m doing pretty good.
Just as long as it doesn’t spread. For example, as of right
now I’m pretty good at making sure I wear matching shoes out in public.
However, how much of a stretch is it for mismatching socks to turn into mismatching
shoes? Or, even worse, wearing brown shoes with a black belt? Or, even worster,
wearing socks and sandals? Or, even most worster, teasing one of my eyebrows slightly
more than the other?
Uh-oh. Looks like I’ve gone and scared the bejeebers out of
myself. Remember all of that stuff I said earlier about not sweating the small
stuff? That wasn’t even close to being accurate! My devil-may-care attitude
towards mismatched socks is going to come back and bite me in a big way, I just
know it! But maybe there’s still time! Maybe I can change my reckless ways! So,
if you’ll excuse me, I have a sock drawer to organize! **
*No, I’m not having a child. This was for illustrative
purposes only. I can’t believe you thought that!
** This post is brought to you by me not having any ideas
when I sat down to write this entry.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Apples, Not Applesauce!
I like to think of myself as low-maintenance. For example,
it takes me exactly zero seconds to do my hair in the morning. Also, I can wear
the same pants for weeks on end without a second thought, although others have
been known to hold their nose as they walk past.
However, there is one facet of life where I am extremely picky: apples. Any apple that I eat must be almost perfect, and by that I mean it must be crisp and crunchy, with minimal-to-no imperfections.
Half of my grocery shopping time is allotted to picking out apples. I hunch over the bin, crowding everybody else out, and examine my options with an intensity usually reserved for a trained professional diffusing an explosive device that is ticking down to 0:00. Any sort of bruise or blemish immediately disqualifies a candidate. Size also matters. There’s no point in buying a small apple, and giant ones scare me. (What happened? Is it mutated?) It has to be perfectly medium.
When I finally find one that meets my standards, I gently place it the requisite plastic bag, being careful not to bump it against any others that have already made the cut. Once I’ve got my desired amount, I then finish my shopping, protecting my apple bag like a mother does a newborn.
But eventually I get to the checkout and everything falls apart. Cashiers have no concept of gentleness when it comes to apples. They grab the bag, slam it down on the scale, then unceremoniously toss it onto the conveyer belt, rendering all of my previous efforts pointless. By the time I have them again in my possession, they look like mob goons have been working them over for information for several hours in a dark, deserted warehouse.
Sometimes, I make a big show of gently placing my apples down amidst the rest of my purchases, in hopes the cashier might see it and realize that I’d appreciate it if they were to handle them delicately. It never happens. Instead, they ask me if I have any coupons as they happily turn my apples into applesauce. I respond by glaring at them and wishing I was the type of person who isn’t afraid to make a scene in a public place.
I do have another option, and that is the self-checkout lines. However, I refuse to use them. I mean, I’ve already walked all over the store gathering my food and putting up with oblivious customers who park in the middle of the aisles and talk on their phones. By the time I get to the checkout, I’m exhausted. Why should I have to check myself out? Heck, doing so might not leave me with enough energy to drive home! What do they think I am, some sort of robot!
And so I’m forced to eat imperfect apples and whine about it in this very blog. But it was either that or make up a poem about not having anything to write about. (“I try to think, but my mind is blank, I’ve got no ideas, as a writer I stank”)
I think I made the right decision.
Maybe.
Probably not. That seems like that would have been a really good poem.
However, there is one facet of life where I am extremely picky: apples. Any apple that I eat must be almost perfect, and by that I mean it must be crisp and crunchy, with minimal-to-no imperfections.
Half of my grocery shopping time is allotted to picking out apples. I hunch over the bin, crowding everybody else out, and examine my options with an intensity usually reserved for a trained professional diffusing an explosive device that is ticking down to 0:00. Any sort of bruise or blemish immediately disqualifies a candidate. Size also matters. There’s no point in buying a small apple, and giant ones scare me. (What happened? Is it mutated?) It has to be perfectly medium.
When I finally find one that meets my standards, I gently place it the requisite plastic bag, being careful not to bump it against any others that have already made the cut. Once I’ve got my desired amount, I then finish my shopping, protecting my apple bag like a mother does a newborn.
But eventually I get to the checkout and everything falls apart. Cashiers have no concept of gentleness when it comes to apples. They grab the bag, slam it down on the scale, then unceremoniously toss it onto the conveyer belt, rendering all of my previous efforts pointless. By the time I have them again in my possession, they look like mob goons have been working them over for information for several hours in a dark, deserted warehouse.
Sometimes, I make a big show of gently placing my apples down amidst the rest of my purchases, in hopes the cashier might see it and realize that I’d appreciate it if they were to handle them delicately. It never happens. Instead, they ask me if I have any coupons as they happily turn my apples into applesauce. I respond by glaring at them and wishing I was the type of person who isn’t afraid to make a scene in a public place.
I do have another option, and that is the self-checkout lines. However, I refuse to use them. I mean, I’ve already walked all over the store gathering my food and putting up with oblivious customers who park in the middle of the aisles and talk on their phones. By the time I get to the checkout, I’m exhausted. Why should I have to check myself out? Heck, doing so might not leave me with enough energy to drive home! What do they think I am, some sort of robot!
And so I’m forced to eat imperfect apples and whine about it in this very blog. But it was either that or make up a poem about not having anything to write about. (“I try to think, but my mind is blank, I’ve got no ideas, as a writer I stank”)
I think I made the right decision.
Maybe.
Probably not. That seems like that would have been a really good poem.
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