Today was a bad day.
Not a bad day in the psychological/traumatized/anti-pregnancy sense; an actual bad day, a woke-up-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-bed day(but I ask, at 4 a.m., is there a right side?), and it just never really got better.
Work was hectic, my apartment is a mess, my skin is dry and tight and itchy, I’m exhausted and stressing over things like the choir I’m quitting and the dentist’s office that doesn’t take my insurance, and I somehow offended my mom by asking her what kind of salsa she had. It was just a bad day.
And now it’s over.
And I am reminded once again that it’s the little things that make or break us.
The big things are there, sure; they reside in us. But unless they’re immediate or current, they usually don’t bear mentioning. Not once today, when Doug or a coworker asked me what was wrong, did I answer by saying, “I still don’t have a baby.” Why would I reference something that happened more than two years ago when that lady who keeps wandering away to do more shopping while I babysit her two spoiled kids at my register is pissing me off right now? Why bring up the pain of my divorce when I am experiencing the very real pain of having just broke a nail down to the quick?
Although I did almost renounce yesterday’s pregnant-women-peace-treaty draft, after I’d been denied the right to have an uninterrupted 10-minute break – twice – because we were busy, only to watch my pregnant coworker come ambling up to her register with a fresh cup of coffee, after a mysterious 10-minute disappearance, during which the rest of us had battled the growing lines. The supervisor who’d tracked me down both times didn’t even look up from the desk when we were trying to call for Melissa. I thought about calling the supervisor out on it, but I could just picture how that conversation would have gone: Me: “Can I ask you why you called me off my ten twice, and then didn’t seem to care when Melissa took hers?” Her: “Oh, but Melissa’s pregnant…” Me: “I don’t give a FUCK!” And then I would’ve gotten written up for insubordination.
But I digress.
That one detail aside, my bad day was not connected to the root of my depression/dissatisfaction. It was just a lot of little, shitty things that piled up in an annoying, but totally non-extraordinary fashion.
And although I’m glad that it’s over and I finally get to go to bed and put it all behind me, it’s kind of nice, every once in a while, to have the sort of bad day that other people have, to be able to look back and say, “Hey, that sucked, but it could have happened to anyone.”
Instead of looking back and wondering, again, “Why me?”
In the “normal” world, bad days are made up of things like broken nails and arguments. As opposed to good days, which are made of compliments and sunshine and good food and the ability to make someone laugh. In either case, it’s all in the details, which is why our daily lives never quite measure up to our lives on paper. Major events – whether exciting or devastating – have got nothing on the daily series of moments.