Toast is a very versatile vehicle for a vast variety of victuals. The process of toasting bread is pretty straightforward. A toaster isn’t a complicated appliance. Regular sliced bread goes in a regular sized toaster. Thicker breads go into a toaster oven. Push the button. Don’t touch the hot metal. Wait for bread to pop out. Slather, pile, or dunk as desired.
Today started out well enough. Had I stayed in bed, it would have gone great. However, I’m told it’s necessary to make my incomparable contribution to society. Get out of bed, they said. You’ll feel better, they said. Have breakfast. Most important meal of the day! I rumbled into the kitchen, opened the bread bag and found only 4 slices left – two of which were ends. No crisis there. I dropped my non-ends (early bird/worm) into the toaster, pushed down the lever, got out the butter and knife, and waited. I went over my plans for the day while I watched tiny wisps of steam escape from the bread.
I breathed in motes of nutty crustiness, and anticipated the triumphant extraction of golden-brown crispness. I heard the pop, and moved swiftly to remove the slices while they retained enough heat to melt the butter. I recoiled in horror as my fingertips grazed over the pale, raw landscape that marred what would have been the perfect start to the day. My bread hadn’t gone through the magical transformation into toast. The coils died somewhere between pushing the button and it popping back up.
It was prophetic. Today, I’m pseudo toast. Toast from a broken toaster. Broken toaster toast. A ghost of toast. I’m not real toast.
noun in·de·pen·dence \ˌin-də-ˈpen-dəns\
: the quality or state of not being under the control of, reliant on, or connected with someone or something else
I can’t drive right now. Well, can’t isn’t the right word. I’m not allowed to drive right now for medical reasons, blah blah blah.
I really don’t mind being at home. I’m blissfully ordering some of the things I ‘need’ online, and delegating purchases of the perishables to others. I’m quite good at being a homemaker. I get to do all those little things that go down the drain when working outside the home. Vacuuming. Dusting. Laundry. Scrubbing. Cooking. Shoot, I’m even doing windows AND screens. All things considered, I’m pretty busy!
I can’t go anywhere without a ride. I don’t live in an area where public transportation is easily accessible. I have to keep asking people to drive me places. I can’t just get in the car and run my errands. It’s reallllllly hard to rely on others. My previous routines are shot. I have to schedule appointments based on when someone is available to take me. I’m stressing about getting places, because if my ride is running late, I’m running late. I hate being late.
I’ve been told I’m independent to a fault. That I tend to take on more than any one person should. That even when I’m at the breaking point, I would rather keep pushing than ask for help. I suppose that’s true to a degree. I take pride in my accomplishments. I don’t like to inconvenience people. I’m hyper-aware of the workloads of others, and I don’t like to add to them.
Good God. I can’t bake, because I ran out of sugar. I can’t repot my plants, because I ran out of dirt. I can’t re-screen the windows, because I ran out of screen. Could I be doing other things? Yes. I don’t want to. I want to do what I want to do when I want to do it. I’m an adult. If one more person tells me this is a ‘teachable moment’, my head is going to explode.
I miss being in control.