I find a good cry to be remarkably productive: a release of emotional toxin, a chance to vocalize the ugly, a shedding of a heavy load. When the cry is done, I am able move on with relative ease (assuming the headache subsides.) But if you promise to be gentle in your thoughts of me, I will tell you a funny story. A story of when I tried something new.
The first thing that you need to know is that we live in a glorified shoebox.
400 square feet.
One bedroom.
Living room with enough space for a loveseat only.
My very favorite part of the house is the northeast corner, where if you stand facing the southwest corner, you can literally see every room of my house WITHOUT so much as shifting your eyes. This is how I give the grand tour. The house has a legacy! Remember that.
Second thing you should know. Students failing tests = Me failing job. It is an exquisitely painful experience every dang time.
Story.
Late one September night, after a long taxing day, I was grading failed tests.
I should know by now that this is a recipe for disaster.
The venom of defeat surged through my veins. I decided to walk away from the table (the folding one we put up and down regularly because it doesn't actually fit in our shoebox.) I noticed the enormous collection of dishes piling up on the counter. Another failure. Among the dishes sat a gaudy, glass, butterdish with butter that --- like me--- had seen better days.
I went to my room, hands clenched in my hair, trying to let it all go. But at a time like that one MUST conquer something, right? The children could not be fixed at 10:36 pm, but the DISHES! I could handle the dishes. Paul in the mean time was trying ever so patiently to assure me that I was not a bad teacher…they were just bad students.
Unconvinced, I got up to do the dishes. I would not be beat down by everything in my path that day. And I refused to cry.
I calmly walked to the sink. I calmly washed dishes. My hands moved with remarkable control considering that every pulse of my heart felt like a wave of filth and obscenities. But I persisted. Calmly. I turned to the counter to get more dishes.
There was that gaudy dish. I washed some more. I turned to collect again, and that rancid butter in its heinous dish just sat there. All sparkly.
A dark desire filled my soul. A need to experiment. I wouldn't miss that dish. We don't even eat that much butter. Should I? No. It's irrational. Will I anyway? Maybe. I lifted the dish (calmly) and a feeling that must have been hate...not for anyone or anything, just hate.... took over.
With shriek that would shame an accomplished banshee, I hoisted that ugly dish directly overhead with both hands. And from that point in my house from which you can view the rest of the house simultaneously, I thrust that shiny body to the ground directly in front of my feet.
I should have just cried.
But I didn’t. I stood there. I observed the scene before me. Numb. I noticed Paul sitting bolt upright on the bed. (He later told me that his only thought at that moment was for self-preservation. "Where will I be most safe?”) I turned around. I walked back to the sink. I continued to do the dishes. Calmly.
I heard Paul puttering around looking for shoes. He came out of the bedroom. I glanced at him with soapy hands and with tears finally slipping down my cheeks said pitifully, "Paul, I broke the butter dish." And then the part of me that normally handles stress broke free and I began to sob. He immediately rushed to hold me. I let him, then pulled back enough to look him in the eye and said, "Paul, I feel so bad. We didn't even know you married a crazy person."
He laughed, and hugged me again.
The first thing he picked up was me. He carried me to my room and put me in my bed. Then he picked up tiny shards of glass from every
single
room
in the house.
I finished the dishes the next morning.
7:13 am.
Victory at last.
