This morning began uneventfully like any other.
After my Bathroom ritual, I executed my Walk-Into-The-Living-Room ritual flawlessly. I turned on the amplifier with my toe. I then proceeded toward the computer along an arc that takes me past the lamp, which I switched on. I leaned over to turn on the computer, and while at an optimal angle, pressed a button on the television remote. I heard the characteristic “boing!”.
The proper living room status had now been obtained.
I then proceeded to execute my Coffee-Making ritual. This, too, proceeded without incident. I took out the basket from our Bunn with my right hand, and removed the pyrex pot with my left. Moving toward the sink, I simultaneously poured out the old brew and, while rinsing the pot, dumped the basket’s contents into the trash.
After returning them, I removed the coffee from the refrigerator, and opened it. The scoop was properly situated with its handle at a thirty degree angle. I opened the cupboard and peeled apart a filter without incident, dropping it into the basket. I removed the pitcher, taking it to the sink and pushing the tap lever to forty-five degress clockwise from top dead center.
I returned to my coffee and put in four scoops, annoyed by the fact that one or two random grounds escaped their intended fate. But a quick Damn-The-Cholerics ritual assuaged me. Upon returning to the sink, sure enough, the water was at the correct level. With one motion, I turned off the water and lifted the pitcher.
I pushed the basket onto its flange and poured in the water. Then I returned the coffee to its place, and returned the pitcher, thereupon removing the Coffee-Mate and sugar. The cup preparation ritual ensued unimpeded.
Because our coffee maker is a Bunn, I knew that I had only a few seconds to bask in the success of my various morning rituals, and then only a couple of minutes before the coffee was ready to pour. This was ample time to vacate to the computer and sign on to the network, and do one or two other living room tasks.
When I returned to the kitchen, I realized that I had about one minute to do my Zantac ritual. This was plenty of time, mind you, and upon completion of that task, I would be able to visit the coffee maker and pour myself a cup.
But then I opened the cabinet door.
I cannot begin to describe my disorientation and dismay. This could not possibly be happening, and yet several blinks and flummoxed stares later, I realized that the horror of reality had descended upon me mercilessly, leaving me in a condition of unfamiliarity that I would not wish upon my worst enemy. My heart sank into the pit of my stomach as I stood in front of the open cabinet door. My mind raced with rationalizations and futile attempts to alter the context of my state of affairs. There was no escaping the facts.
My Zantac had been moved from the left side of the cabinet to the right side.
Attempting to recover, I began an Appeal-To-All-That-Is-Holy-And-Rational ritual. But it was to no avail. As I glanced over my shoulder to see the final drops of coffee plopping into the pot, I was faced with an incredibly monumental imbalance. My Zantac was on the right side of the cabinet, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.
Oh certainly, you say, I could have moved it back to the left. But moving the pill bottle from one side to another is most decidedly NOT a part of the Zantac ritual, and you will see why, momentarily, that it was not even practical. How could this have happened? Surely, my wife did not do this. Ah! My daughter! She had come to visit and likely somehow had managed to perpetrate this extreme disorientation upon me.
But knowing now how it must have happened was little solace. Glancing once again, I could see that my coffee was done. For how long? Who could know? Perhaps several seconds have passed since the final drip, and now I am faced with at least several more seconds dealing with this undeserved frustration of my Zantac ritual.
Quickly, I surmised that I had to do one thing or the other. Either reach into the cabinet and retrieve the pill bottle, or else move the pill bottle to its proper location and then retrieve it.
That dilemma would be bad enough, but unfortunately it was not that simple. Not only had the Zantac been moved to the right, but other bottles had been grouped and stacked to the left! Rearranging would be a massive task requiring possibly thirty seconds or more of wasted time.
Dear God!
I shook my head in disbelief. I need not explain to another Melancholy the importance of having the pill bottle on the left. You will understand immediately that the cabinet must be right-hinged. Leftward access provides the most efficient means for opening the cabinet door and retrieving the pills.
After a complex assessment that seemed to take forever, I reached for the pill bottle, executed the remainder of my Zantac ritual, and then faced the decision of whether I should return it from where I took it.
Just as I was about to sink into an unrecoverable daming of my fate, it dawned on me: I can do a Cabinet-Rearrangemet ritual at some point later in the morning. But when? The morning’s activities had been mapped out the day before, and I was now already at least two minutes behind schedule. A schedule is like a house of cards — remove one, and the entire edifice collapses.
Thinking with desperate speed and deliberation, I reasoned that I could rearrange the cabinet during the first commercial interruption of the news. Inspired, I closed the cabinet door, poured my coffee, and settle down in front of the television.
But the Zantac kept calling out to me like a tell-tale heart. I could not concentrate. The newsman was saying something about unrest in the Middle East, but all I could think about was that misplaced pill bottle, languishing there on the right-hand side of the cabinet. I began to have nearly schizophrenic hallucinations that the bottle was crying out to me for help.
And then finally! A commercial came on. But not just any commercial. It was the one about the folding gadget that is so much fun that your children will beg you to let them fold the clothes.
Hallelujah!
Had I not already planned to absent myself from that commercial, I surely would have done so spontaneously. (Well, as spontaneously as a Melancholy can anyway.) So I dashed toward the cabinet, and rearranged all the bottles properly.
Peace of mind at last.
I would like this second edition of the thread to consist primarily of testimonials from Melancholies about narrow escapes from disasterous trauma, such as the one I’ve shared here. But in the spirit of community, and as a gesture of goodwill to show that we are not entirely anal retentive, I would welcome all posts —even from Phlegs.
