The Hard Easy

I once bought an old kitchen table with the intention of painting it white. I did, but I used the wrong paint so it looked terrible and uneven. I should have stripped it and started over but I was lazy, so I just got new paint and painted over it. The paint rippled and bubbled and looked even worse, yet I did that twice more before coming to terms with the fact that this table was a total loss and I didn’t care anymore. The easy fix had become too hard. Repairing everything I had done to cover up my mistakes seemed too daunting. And somewhere in the dead of night Bob Vila awoke in a cold sweat and shed a solitary tear.
My head has become this manic courtroom waiting for a judge to pound the gavel and call for order. I can’t stop thinking about that table I left in Japan and how beautiful it could have been had I taken the time and done things right. I can’t stop thinking about all my mistakes and missteps, caked in cheap paint, quietly bubbling up to the surface no matter how many layers I blanket over them. I look back on the past few months and it almost seems as though I've been in a period of mourning. Detaching yourself from the image of what you thought your life would be is no easy thing. I'm not exactly sure how to articulate it, but I have become increasingly aware that I don't feel good. I feel like a phony somehow. As though these layers have taken on a life of their own and have been running the show.

This morning I set about my regular morning ritual. Boil water. Scoop coffee into the press. Pour water over the grinds. Wait. Press. Pour. Usually the familiarity of the routine is comforting but this morning it just felt tedious. I felt antsy. Restless. Dissatisfaction and unease are beasts that live in my belly these days and I could feel them gnawing away, relentless. In a childish fit of frustration I pushed my mug of coffee right off the counter. I guess I expected or hoped it would shatter spectacularly, but instead it just bounced off the linoleum and exploded very hot coffee all over my leg.
Curses. Deep breaths. Towels. Clean up. I scooped the "Live in the moment" mug off the floor and set it in the sink. This isn't me. This childish person so caught up in her own struggle feels inauthentic and uncomfortable. I know, spilled coffee does seem rather anticlimactic, but just like that it was as though a switch was flipped and I felt overwhelming calm. Like some divine reassurance that everything will be okay. And for now that's enough.