Do-over

Nothing enrages me more in private than the unnecessary repetition of a simple task. People sometimes call this a “pet peeve”, but I just call it an undecipherable slew of curse words. (On a side note, I have often wanted to name a dog Peeve just so I can say, “This is my pet, Peeve.”)

Let me give an example. Here I am in the kitchen going about my business when I notice a Ziploc baggie that has fallen to the ground. The baggie is of no immediate consequence to my current task, but I have noticed it and concluded it should be retrieved. So while in the midst of multi-tasking, I spare a second to bend down and grab it. Only I miss the plastic offender and the small breeze my grabbing hands create causes it to flutter just slightly. My brows furrow a bit, but my good mood sustains as I make for a second grab.

This time I make the exact same mistake. The baggie bounces in delight. Now I realize my blood pressure is sky-rocketing and I mutter something of distain under my breath with the underlying threat of death should this baggie not concede at once. I miss the third time in a row and make a noise comparable to an angry piglet. My hands become possessed with rage as I use both of them to smash into the baggie and surrounding tile floor, bruising my knuckles. The mangled baggie becomes twisted and wretched in my hands, rendering it unusable and making the task a moot point.

But I emphasize my distain to the uncooperative baggie by escorting it, along with a lengthy array of profanities, over to the trash can. This will teach you, I say silently to the baggie as I begin to introduce it to its chrome cylinder grave. You think you’re so smart, well, who’s the smart one now! I get my only sense of relief and superiority within the last 45 seconds as I step on the lid-release of the can. And I miss-my foot slips. Haha! Stupid baggie! You’ll be gone forever! I still muse, undeterred. And my foot slips again, hitting the tile floor and making an uneasy slap! sound. I glare at the lid-release, now it is garnering my full spectrum of uncontrollable rage. Again, I position my foot to step…

Moments later I have thrown the trash can and the baggie onto the lawn and am watching a Magnum, P.I. rerun with a glass of Chardonnay. It takes a village to raise a child, a man to move a mountain, and an impatient lunatic to cuss out a trash can.