Paper Or Plastic?

This morning was one of those: I was up early and already running late.  And so I found myself scrambling out the door with the bowl of oatmeal that I failed to make time to eat at home, when I figured (again) that I am totally capable of simultaneously carrying my purse, laptop bag, a pair of shoes, a coffee mug and a bowl of warm sloshing cereal meanwhile using my left butt cheek to push open that evil, tiny screen door handle and snag the front door with my free right hand (can I get an amen?).  I'm sure that this is all goes smooth as butter in my alternate life, where I have 8 arms.

Look how much fun she's having.

Look how much fun I'm having.

C is constantly harping on me for trying to carry too many things at once.  We'll get home from the grocery store, and I'll start loading up bags onto my fingers like a 2nd grade coat rack in January.  I'm still amazed that I haven't permanently lost the feeling in my right index finger, which is my preferred bag sherpa.  During each of our recent moves, it feels like I manage to pile far too high a stack of books and "important papers" (most of these are drawings from our favorite 2-5 year olds and greeting cards I've always meant to, but never actually sent) in the empty box from our blender, or ripped through far too many plastic bags by filling them with silverware and hangars.  There is a science to load bearing I'm sure, and it's high time that I take that class, because I'm fairly positive that as oatmeal/baby vomit was sliding down the sleeve of my fleece this morning, C felt no pity for me.  I suppose it's like watching someone with an addiction relapse into their vice.  You've seen them fall too many times to be disappointed by their latest failure.

And there's a crazier part.  While I'm standing with oatmeal dripping off of my cuff and that stupid screen door caught on my left shoulder, I'm kind of mad.  Well yeah, I'm definitely mad at myself, and the oatmeal, and the tiny door handle, but I'm also a little mad at C.  Part of me wanted him to come sweep along beside me, lift the oatmeal/shoes out of my paws and open that door for me.

But the reality is that if he'd have come to my rescue and eased my burden, I probably would've just remembered the 15 other things that I wanted to bring in to work today, and filled my fingers up again.  And probably I would have re-spilt my oatmeal.  And this time it would have fallen on the crotch of my pants.  It totally would.

Speaking of that - last night I spilled a scalding cup of tea on the crotch of my pants.  Do you know that when you spill boiling water on yourself, you are guaranteed to freak out and flail enough to spill it again?

Yup, yup you are.

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