Some days, nothing is going right. Did you ever read the kid’s book, “Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day“? Some days are just like that.
Some days are all about doing laundry all day long because there are no clean sheets or towels or kitchen linens or underwear and the silk scarves that were soaked to get dyed didn’t get dyed and now they smell funny and those need washing too OH GOD I HATE LAUNDRY LET’S BURN ALL THE THINGS.
Some days are crazyface dogs who will not stop destroying EVERYTHING. ALL OF IT. LET’S BURN ALL THE THINGS. YES.
Some days are those silk scarves getting horrifically tangled in the wash, requiring scads of detangling time because they are now A GIANT HUGENORMOUS UNFIXABLE GORDIAN KNOT OF DOOM AND HATE.
Some days are my cat being too good for me. Look at that face. She hates us.
EVEN MY CATS HATE MY LIFE. WORST. DAY. EVER.
Some days are like all of these things, plus too much caffeine, the dull buzz of a burgeoning migraine which I’ve been fighting off for days with every substance any doctor has thrown at my pain (I WILL BE SICK FOREVER), and HVAC contractors ripping up my 102 year old house (THEY WILL HIT THE WRONG NAIL AND MY HOUSE WILL CRUMBLE TO THE GROUND).
Some days are all of that and a notice for a registered letter, which in my world means the IRS screwed up AGAIN and they are going to ask me for 981 million dollars in back taxes that I don’t owe and I’ll be engaged in yet another set of many- hour long phone calls with office drones in cubicles who tell me they are grateful for my service and so terribly sorry but they’ll have to place a lein against my house unless I give them a little something right now and the IRS’s idea of “a little something” is like five grand. Oh, and they’ll take payment only via my credit card number over the phone right now, thankyouverymuch.
(Deep breath.) THEY ALWAYS COME WHEN WE’VE FINALLY SQUIRRELED SOMETHING AWAY AND ONCE I PROVE TO THEM AGAIN THAT I OWE NOTHING IT WILL TAKE ELEVENTY MILLION MORE PHONE CALLS TO OFFICE DRONES TO GET MY MONEY BACK AND THE HOLD MUSIC OH GOD THE HOLD MUSIC NO NO NO OMFG BURN ALL OF THE THINGS. ALL. OF. THE. THINGS.
Like that. Some days. They are.
And when I screw my courage to the sticking point and go to our local post office to pick up the hateful letter, it turns out to be this.
A gift, from Malaysia. Not a letter at all; a present.
A beautiful tiny little present, handmade incense, with strange stamps to wonder over, wrapped in a battered brown envelope, from halfway around the world. Thank you, N, whoever you are, for making me cry just a little in a Baltimore post office. Thank you for reminding me that I’m wasting my energy with that anger and missing the things that matter. Thank you for giving me a little thing I can hold in two hands and remember that all that other shit is nothing, nothing, nothing at all.