Here speaketh the Universe, or something. I had a whole little Zen post all planned out. Last week my lovely cleaning lady (without whom we would languish in perpetual chaos) was cleaning the refrigerator and the shelf above the crisper shattered in her hands, which was all a bit dramatic and gave us both quite a fright. The thing is, I utterly loathe dealing with these kinds of things. I find trying to look for model numbers and part numbers and match them up on finicky little diagrams insanely stressful. I am always convinced that I am going to end up with the wrong part or that I am going to make some mistake that will end up costing us loads extra or that I am somehow doing the wrong thing. (Actually this rather tragic conviction has been more or less my constant companion for as long as I can remember, but I digress.) Anyway, in the brightness and clarity (really – I love this part, crappy sleep notwithstanding, and even that is getting better!) of my new sobriety, I did the hard thing! I matched up the stupid numbers and scrutinized the minute diagram and went ahead and just ORDERED THE PART. As luck would have it, the package arrived today and I planned to draw some neat little metaphor about my fridge being restored to full capacity and sobriety and doing hard things.
So neat, and spot on – I have done a whole 30 days without wine and I CAN do hard things. But. It turns out that, in Sears’ parlance at least, “Glass refrigerator shelf” denotes a sheet of plain glass that is entirely useless without the plastic frame into which it slots and which we conscientiously recycled on the day of the incident, and whose replacement cost is the same again as said useless piece of glass, bringing the total for the repair to one fifth of the cost of a whole new fridge. I could blog instead about the equanimity and good humor with which newly-sober me finds herself able to navigate these little setbacks. Haha! “You FUCKER!!!!” is how I actually responded, aimed at Sears, the offending piece of glass and myself and heedless of the Little, who was playing on his own in the living room. “I am not a fucker!” he called, outraged. “You are a fucker. What is a fucker mommy?” My horrified “PLEASE don’t say that word. Don’t say what mommy says!” eliciting a still-affronted, “But you SAID fucker, mommy.” It was hilarious and awful. I died.
(I apologize for the profanity – I am very sweary in real life although trying hard to be better about it.)
Here’s the thing, though. I was really irritated – with myself for having made the mistake and with Sears for not labeling their parts better – but I wasn’t swamped with shame and rage, as I would have been a month ago. I didn’t order the wrong part because I am a fuckup and incapable, and although I had to spend 17 years “chatting” with customer service to make sure that I ordered all the right missing parts and haggling for free shipping (was it worth it? we ask ourselves) it hasn’t ruined my day.
probably should have checked in with Sears to make sure I was getting the right part and before we recycled the frame, and they could definitely make the process a lot more straightforward with clearer descriptions, but… well, that’s life, isn’t it? I am so grateful to be sober. My great takeaway from these first 30 days is, getting sober isn’t going to magically transform me into someone else, and my sober life is not going to be miraculously problem free. Things are going to go wrong, and I am going to make mistakes – and I am probably going to swear a bit when I do, at least for now but, sober, I can live with myself. I am more than my mistakes and life is so, so much bigger and better than the minor (or even major) catastrophes that are a part of it. Sober, I can do better – and I am. 🤗