true story*

I woke feeling like it was going to be another boring day: shower, dress, toast and coffee, drive, work, sandwich and soda, work, drive, TV, pasta and wine, more TV, sleep…

I was wrong.

It’s taken me a long time to tell this story because it’s taken me a long time to come to terms with what happened, with what the toaster did and how I handled it.  I’m telling it now though because I realized that warning all of you, warning my faithful kingdom, is more important than distancing myself from … from …  well, you’ll see.


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The alarm went off and my eyes shot open.  I was on my stomach, which was weird, but it was too early, and I was too tired and disoriented to really give that much thought.

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However, I did think about getting out of bed, and decided that was a terrible idea.

Seeing as how the alarm would continue it’s shrill beeping until I did get up, I had no other choice.  I rose, turned off the stupid annoying troublesome “insert four letter word here” -ing alarm, showered, dressed, and generally just woke up enough to face my day.

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If you’ve been paying attention you’ll notice that I’d successfully navigated through the usual routine of my day up to the point of having my toast and coffee for breakfast.  And that is exactly where my day took a dramatic turn for the worse.

The toaster wouldn’t work.

I can’t have toast without a toaster.

In my rushed, and starting to panic state, I might have slapped it around a bit.  I honestly don’t remember.

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I am certain that I freaked out though.

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Then, gathering myself, I asked the toaster politely why it was intentionally trying to ruin my day.

I questioned its sanity.

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I flailed a bit more.

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I tried to understand its inner workings, its logic, its reasons for not working, for thwarting my routine, for becoming my ultimate nemesis after years of a successful partnership.

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When that didn’t work, I flailed a bit more.  In retrospect, I think my tenuous grasp on sanity was slipping.

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I did the chicken dance.  I… I… I have no idea why.

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I blanked out for a minute after the chicken dance.

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I’d like to think it was my body taking a minute to quietly reflect on that fact that not getting my toast wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.  But, I’m fairly certain that I blanked out because I didn’t want to remember the moment when I finally cracked.

When I “woke up” again, I felt this pulling sensation, this growing need to eat.  I was starting to starve.

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So, I did the most logical thing I could think of at the time.  I tried to eat my own hand.

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Thankfully, before I did any real damage, it occurred to me that wasn’t actually a very sensible thing to do.  I once again questioned my sanity.

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Shortly afterwards, when the gnawing in my stomach subsided and I calmed down, I realized that I needed to stop questioning myself.  I would still be okay even if I didn’t follow my routine.  I needed to be strong.  I needed to tell my self doubts to go away.

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So, I raspberried my toaster.

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And I came to terms with myself and my situation.

I shook my head and laughed at myself, thinking about being reduced to a flailing, blubbering, fool over a broken toaster and a messed up routine.

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I relived the craziness and laughed about it on my drive to work.

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I relived the craziness and laughed about it at work.

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In the end, I successfully made it through my day without having had my toast, and I learned a valuable lesson: don’t let your routine own you.

Okay, that’s not the lesson I learned, but it sounds better than the truth.  What’s the real lesson then, you ask?

Always, always have a back up toaster!

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And now I’ve shared my story with you, so that you too can learn from it.  Pick whichever lesson makes the most sense to you…


*This is not a true story.  You can see the post that inspired this silliness here.