When I was younger (and singler), I would occasionally and halfheartedly worry that my life would degenerate into a Cathy comic strip. “Ack! I’m single and my thighs are getting fatter! Ack! My boyfriend won’t commit! Ack! My mom won’t stop nagging me! Ack! Ack! Ack!”
I’m proud to report that I have dodged that Cathy bullet. Yes, swimming suit season still bums me out, but otherwise, I’m living the dream. (Snort.) Married. Two kids. House. Job. Yada yada.
Now, however, I worry that my life maybe following the path of Everyone Loves Raymond. Here’s an example: we have a bamboo cutting board that has started to warp a little. It’s bowed, length-wise. Charley insists on putting the cutting board on the counter so that the curved edges point up. This. Drives. Me. Crazy. Every time that I need to use the cutting board, I have to flip the thing over, because otherwise it rocks. I’ve got vegetables to julienne! Proteins to chop! What am I going to to with a chopping board that rocks?
So I flip it over so that it’s slightly curved, but stable. I chop whatever it is that needs chopping, clean up the board, and set it back on the counter so that it doesn’t wobble. And then the next evening when I begin my chopping ritual again, the cutting board is back to rocking back and forth on the counter. I sigh. I flip it over. And begin again.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
The interesting (maybe) part, is that we’ve never said anything about it. Instead we go about silently flipping, un-flipping, and re-flipping this fundamentally flawed cutting board. Part of me thinks it’s worth bringing up one of these days. The other part of me just wants to toss the fucking thing out and get us a shiny new — straight — cutting board.
It’s not nearly as sexy as I had envisioned my life would turn out. But then on the other hand… Wait. There is no other hand.
eleven bee 