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The weekly challenge for March 9, 2022 is...
*Drumroll please*
Tell me a story about a mug.
Here's mine:
Today I got mad at a mug.
You read that right.
Today I got mad at a mug.
Yup.
On the surface, it's nothing special. It’s white with pseudo-lemon-shaped-gold polka dots. It’s actually kind of nice because it holds thirty-two ounces of liquid with some space in it. It’s also microwavable, even with the gold, which is a bonus. Not that I ever microwave it because I’m kind of a tea snob and I admit that. Something about the microwave makes the water funky and by default the tea. Plus the handle of the mug gets too hot and I’m not a fan of using potholders to drink tea.
I’m off track.
Anyway, that whole spiel was to tell you that the mug is nothing special, just a mug.
So, I made some tea this morning and grabbed the first large mug I could find.
Well, technically the second, you see, my favorite mug holds 24 ounces, it’s a nice pale shade of pink and, engraved into it, has black letters that say, ‘Bride-to-Be.’ I’m not a bride-to-be anymore, I’m a married woman; however, I’m not very happy with my husband right now, so I wasn’t feeling very favorite mug-y.
That’s when I end up with the mad mug.
I pour my chai tea, add some vanilla and a dash of milk, and go sit on the couch where I’m supposed to be working on writing a novel. I couldn’t really think of anything, so I started watching a TV show. It’s one of those dramatic, doctor-y, guilty pleasure soap operas that has been on air way too long and I just started the third season for the umpteenth time. I have a problem. I know, but that’s the first step to fixing it, right? I play this show in the background for noise, but on days when I can’t be alone with my thoughts, I actually watch it.
Today was one of those days.
So, I finish off my tea shortly before the episode ends and take my mug to the sink.
That’s when it happens. I have a flashback to the day I won it because, up until this very moment on this very day, I have forgotten how I acquired it.
I won it in a game at a baby shower for a friend who is more like a sister. I love her daughter. I love all my nieces and nephews. But not today.
Today, I hate this mug because I hate what it represents. It represents something I cannot have. Something I don’t get to have. It represents a 1-in-a-million chance that I blew. It represents why I’m not happy with my husband.
You see, a few weeks ago we learned that we can’t have children. Just what every young couple that’s trying to conceive wants to hear. We have male and female factor infertility, so that’s not why I’m not happy with him, which makes me mad at my mug.
No.
I’m not happy with him because I’m jealous of him. I wish—scratch that— I want to have his hope. Part of the reason we make a good team is that we're both pessimists, but not on this.
Nope.
I’m not happy with him because he has hope. He has hope that someday, some poor childless woman will win an ugly white and gold mug at my baby shower. He has hope that I’ll have to repurchase all the baby items I bought but am giving away to friends and loved ones because I can’t bear to look at them anymore will need to be repurchased. He has hope that the doctors are wrong. He has hope that someone will look at the ugly mug they won at my baby shower and be mad that I have a child and they can’t.
I’m mad at my mug because my husband has hope.
How messed up am I?
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