I published this in March, 2013. I have to confess that I still feel the same way about those stupid hangers (and the drip, drip, drip effect).
It takes a great deal to make me mad.
I normally practice zen-like calm. When I feel myself get anxious, as I am wont to do (doncha just love that word wont?) I force myself to chill. I take several deep breaths, I contemplate my navel. I become one with the Universe or the chair.
I am Yoda of the Writing Set.
There is little that can hack me off.
However, and this is a big however, I am human and subject to Chinese Water Torture. If you drip, drip, drip, drip, drip on me long enough, I will lose it. I will be like a sleeping giant awakened before he hits REM sleep. I will emerge, snarling with sharpened teeth and curving claws like a bear from hibernation.
About an hour ago, I had a mini-meltdown. I could be found, yelling, in my closet.
What set me off, you ask?
- Is it the publishing empire?
- Is it another writer, a contest, a review?
- Is it cruelty, disease, or injustice?
Au contraire, my friends.
It’s a hanger.
I originally bought the Joy Mangano velvet hangers but thought they were too expensive this time, so I purchased 50 of a similar type from Amazon, cheap, cheap. And that’s exactly what they are: cheap, cheap. I can’t believe how flimsy they are. Three of them have broken in the last week. The last one, this morning, just set me off.
The little things will get to you. It’s the way someone gargles. Or how he doesn’t put the toothpaste top back on, or how he leaves one sock on the floor in front of the sink. You can handle the crises of life like sickness and death and financial problems.
But the hangers will make you scream.