I just broke a white wine glass. It was from our honeymoon – one of those complimentary wine glasses from ‘the room.’ We have a huge set of red wine glasses from our wedding gift registry. In fact, we’d received two sets of twelve and had to return one set. So yes, we have twelve red wine glasses. We only have four white wine glasses. All four were from our honeymoon – two were from Grgich Hills and two were from the place we stayed. Now we have three because of the one I broke. And in its place, I have a sense of loss.
I know it’s silly. I know it doesn’t matter. It’s just a wine glass. But I place sentimental value on such things. I’m a recovering pack rat. And I cried. Then I stepped in the broken glass while trying to clean it up and, as is my habit when I step on dirt in the kitchen, I subconsciously tried to wipe the dirt off using the top of my other foot. And now the top of my other foot is bleeding.
The thing is, I broke the glass because it was sitting with the dirty dishes that we didn’t finish cleaning last night and I knocked it with my elbow opening a door I didn’t need to open to get the pepper I didn’t need to get to fill the pepper mill that I discovered upon opening didn’t need filling. So this was not a wound sustained in the battle of dishwashing or revelry. This was needless. Unnecessary. Proof of silliness and clutz.
The other thing that is bothering me is: now my organized glass cupboard will be ‘off.’ I should be grateful for such trivial woes!