Yesterday, as I was eating lunch after my oh-so-uplifting doctor's appointment, I overheard a pair of gentlemen discussing a recent property acquisition. (Don't judge me, they were exceptionally loud. I think they were from Texas.) As one man complained about an ambiguous property line, the other attempted to console him by suggesting a call to the local authorities and a visit to small claims court. As far as I could tell, they were talking about a few paltry feet. All their complaining, all of their strife, and all of their time was wasted on the pursuit of a square yard of dirt. Luckily, Panera's broccoli cheese soup and fresh baguette combo is one of my favorite things in the world and puts me in a state of otherworldly euphoria, so I didn't do what I know my mind (in the recesses not affected by the soup) wanted me to do.
I wanted to march over there and say: "Listen, mister. I know that right now you feel cheated and wronged, that the world has somehow overlooked your unquestionable good deeds and righteous behavior in every aspect of life on earth, but I want to tell you something. Your problem is petty. It is simply not worth your efforts, your ignorance of the beauty that is going on around you, your precious time, to spend this day polluting the ears of people around you with your harsh words and abrasive tone. While you have been worrying about a lack of land, I am slowly dealing with the possibility that I may never bear children of my own. Your problem is trivial. Get over it. Also, please know that the people over at Ann Taylor can probably hear you."
Most problems are trivial, in fact. I just learned that I'm going to be faced with a major change at work. You know what? It seems trivial. No worries. My only worry in this world? That everyone else is being invited to a party called motherhood, and my invitation got lost in the mail.
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