The list of things which I cannot control seems endless at times. I cannot make the cat’s nose not cold, nor can I control his seemingly primal desire to greet me cold nose to bare skin. I cannot control the hormones that pulse through the bodies of my teenage children, nor my former husband’s… well, anything that would be handy for me to be able to control. I cannot expand the hours in a day, the days in a week, or the sunlight allowed by the rotation of the earth around the sun.
Beyond my vote–and the resources invested in campaigns–I cannot control who will be the next President of the United States. That one is particularly humbling on this day because… well, there’s a great deal at stake for me and my “homosexual agenda.”
At the market where I spend my days, I’m covered up with realities I cannot tame. When trucks arrive, how much is on them, which coworkers come when they are scheduled, and how efficiently they “throw” the goods when they come. For the first two months I worked there, I was unaffected by these things. I just went, clocked in, did my job (excellently, I might add), clocked out, and went home.
This week, I suddenly found myself quite agitated. After being out of my regular position for a couple of weeks to train and work in another department (to give a vacation to a really cool dude who hadn’t had one in four years), I came back to a mess in housewares and baby food. The shelves in my areas were out of whack and the backstock was more screwed up than what I cleaned up when I first got the job.