God in Little Objects

God in Little Objects

Joy! I just bought a pair of kitchen scissors. What are kitchen scissors, you ask? Well, they are scissors…but for the kitchen. And they bring joy. Because you cut stuff instead of chopping stuff. I feel fancy and adult, owning these kitchen scissors. Who would have thought such a simple tool would yield such giddy delight?

I was moderately happy when I bought my first cooler many years ago. Not kitchen scissors happy but in the same ballpark. Sort of “Oh look how responsible I am. Look! I own a cooler now. I can put food in the cooler and it will stay cool. Look at me! I’m an adult.”

I don’t feel happy about the pumpy thermos thing I bought for my coffee. I thought it would offer me something: convenience, portability of my hot coffee. But it hasn’t…or I don’t care about those features as much as I thought. It simply collects dust in the corner. It’s slowly becoming clutter. And that’s discouraging.

My cheap wetsuit makes me immensely unhappy. It’s cheap and it sucks. So every time I put it on, I remember my tendency to scrimp on things that matter to me and I feel testy. My wetsuit matters: It keeps me warm in cold water and I surf. That’s important. I hate my cheap wetsuit. It’s tight and it constricts me.

My friend at the end of the street has been acting differently. He’s a guy and I’m not and I thought we could just be friends but instead some weird “why don’t you have sex with me” vibe has developed and put a strain on us. He’s become emotionally detached and into these head games.
He’s slowly becoming a coffee pumpy thing, collecting dust in the corner.

My mother, I thought, would provide me considerably more happiness. She had a great and unusual personality. But she was pretty self-centered and depressed and dramatic and I often fell quietly by the wayside. She was the kitchen scissors I always wanted. She was the wetsuit that makes me grimace. She could have been the cooler, at least. Maybe she was. Maybe I’m just mad.

The liquid soap I bought smells of orange blossoms. Every single time I use it, it makes me feel like a child; it’s such a simple, pretty scent. I feel innocent and delicate. The wetsuit makes me angry and self-punitive. My mother should have been quieter and softer sometimes, for my sake. The guy down the street, he reads a book called The Game that teaches him nasty tricks that men can play on women so they can score.

My kitchen scissors currently provide me more happiness than he does. Which is sad because they are scissors and he is a man. He’s slowly becoming clutter. And that’s discouraging. I miss his orange blossom scent. I’m getting a new wetsuit soon but you only get one mom, constricting neckline and all. I don’t own that cooler anymore. I don’t know where it went.

My kitchen scissors are God this week. Luxurious and sharp. Amen.