Sorry--Out of Service

The other day, out in the car doing my round of errands, I came face to face with a bus coming from the opposite direction. On its big sign were the words: SORRY—OUT OF SERVICE.

Would that we could all have such a big sign on our foreheads for those days when we are more or less out of service.

This cold—this lingering condition of being badgered to a thread by a million (a billion? a trillion?) viruses—has me staggering along, doing the necessary by rote: make the bed, put on the kettle, bread into the toaster, peanut butter because it's easier than an egg, brush through the hair, cast a baleful eye at the mirror, move the laundry on to the next machine, ignore the fact that I should have done it last night, spray some bathroom freshener in the laundry room because it smells funny, make sure that the things that should be defrosting are defrosting, and that the things that should be in the fridge or freezer are back in the correct spot and not on the counter turning into food poisoners. You get the idea.

Bare minimum.

It occurs to me: why is that bus out driving around if it is OUT OF SERVICE? Maybe it's just heading back to the garage. But why would they plan only half a trip for the bus? Surely it could be IN SERVICE until it got back to the garage. Or maybe it was out on some sort of test drive. Then shouldn't they have a sign for that? SORRY—OUT ON A TEST DRIVE. SORRY—THE LAST DRIVER THOUGHT HE HEARD A FUNNY NOISE.

My ailment turned out to be just a cold. But to say that is as wrong-headed as to say just a housewife. A cold is a near-death experience in the sense that your feelings of health and happiness come close to vanishing. A housewife is balancing countless things in her brain, all while trying to be pleasant. Not just what's for supper, but what's for tomorrow's supper. Will that leftover potato (or rice or noodles) still be good—safe? And if so, is it enough, or will I have to add some slices of bread? And if so, are crusts acceptable? And how about that fancy bread that gave me diarrhea but was too expensive to throw out, so it's still in the freezer? Maybe some of that, toasted to make it sort of special. And, oh yes, do I hear the buzzer in the kitchen? Oh yes, I am boiling some eggs for tomorrow's sandwiches. Why do I never remember to put baking soda (or was it baking powder?) in the pot to make them easier to peel? And the cat's flea collar should probably—possibly—be replaced, if she will hold still for it, because although the package said it would be good for six months, or eighteen months, or something—I forget which—she is now scratching.

Just a housewife. Only a housewife. Only a cold.

Certain ordinary things in life are just plain hard. Having a cold. Moving. Saying no. Having the courage to ask for what you want. Walking away from something you should walk away from.