Dignity Health Leaderboard 2

Lift Flap To Open


blowupbox

"Lift flap to open." I had already read this instruction three times but checked it once more just in case there was something I had missed.

"LIFT FLAP TO OPEN!" Now the box seemed to be screaming at me, mocking me for being so inept and incapable of following a simple instruction. So, in my heretofore futile attempt to unlock the box of Queen Anne Cherry Cordials, I tried once more to "lift flap to open." The flap came off in my hand.

Now, usually, I can handle a little set back such as this. I take a deep cleansing breath, exhale slowly, and move on with my life. But not that particular day. Because that particular day really sucked. I was having the mother of all bad hair days.

Now the box seemed to be screaming at me, mocking me for being so inept...
It was one of those days where most females in the house were PMS-ing (except for my eleven-year-old daughter who has yet to experience the "wonders" of womanhood, and our dog, Jenny). Nothing was going right. The syrup for the waffles was "too runny," according to my 16-year-old daughter. The skin tones of Matt and Meredith on the Today Show were too "orangy" said my 15-year-old daughter. Both teenagers pointed out that the lunches I had been packing for them were "totally gross" and "smelled really weird." And when I went for a paper towel to wipe up some spilled milk only to discover my son had used the last one to make a mask, I did exactly what that old cliché tells us not to do I cried over spilt milk.

I'll spare the details on how the rest of that day went; let's just say those morning events were the best part of waking up on that particular day. So the promise of biting into a milk chocolate dome and having that sweet, thick liquid and cherry center ooze out to salve the wounds of my soul was what kept me going. And when I was unsuccessful at "lifting the flap to open," my world came close to crashing in.

I stopped mid-scream to see the reflection of a crazed, wild-eyed woman denied what she considered to be the elixir of life.
I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror across the room as I was trying to unfasten this simple paper box, and it was not a pretty sight. My face was contorted and tears were in my eyes as I screamed at the box and thrashed it against the countertop. I looked like a character in a science fiction movie who was trying to kill a small, box-shaped alien life form. My dog, Max, who was witnessing the event, quivered and whined in fright.

"This is a sad, sad sight," I thought to myself as I stopped mid-scream to see the reflection of a crazed, wild-eyed woman denied what she considered to be the elixir of life. I put the box down, stood up, smoothed my hair back down, wiped my tears, and gathered my frightened schnauzer in my arms.

"I'm better than this," I told Max. "I don't need a 'fix,' a piece of chocolate to help me through hard times." Max licked my nose and nuzzled under my chin, and I knew I was OK and had "come down from the ledge." And boy was I hungry! I picked up the butcher knife and sliced that box of Queen Anne's open in two seconds.

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