You know that saying “don’t cry over spilled milk?” I wonder if the originator of the saying ever had a time when he had ONE glass of milk left and he was waiting in joyous anticipation for the best moment to drink his cold glass of milk, thinking about how glorious it would be when he took that first refreshing sip and let out that universal “ahhh” of contentment, only to watch all of it SPILL in front of him. I don’t think he did because if he had, he would understand the need to sometimes cry over spilled milk.
That mess on my kitchen floor? That was my breakfast salad. It spilled. And I wanted to cry. I didn’t, but I promise you I was close. Even as I’m typing this I’m almost worked up to tears. There’s a lot going on in my life right now and I feel that overall I’ve been holding together pretty well. But this?!?!?
I soooooo wanted to eat this. I was getting it ready to take to work with me cause I didn’t have time to eat it at home. I used my last bit of romaine lettuce, my last banana and the last of my walnuts. When it fell, it was like slow motion. I reached for it and yelled “NOOOO,” but it was too late. The next thing I knew, there my beloved breakfast was, spread out on the floor. My first urge was to shovel everything back into the container and pretend as though nothing happened, but the sense in me stopped myself. I’m not 6 years old anymore, I know better than to eat food off of the floor, especially since I know it’s been some weeks since I last mopped that floor. But I wanted to. Badly.
Once I realized that nothing could be done, I cleaned up the mess and went back to the fridge to see what I could eat instead. But the prospect of making something else brought me absolutely no satisfaction. I had lost my appetite. If I couldn’t have a breakfast salad with romaine, banana and walnuts, I didn’t want anything at all. And so, I decided not to eat anything till tonight when I go over to the pastor’s house for dinner. Call it a protest against gravity.