There are times in life when it is the little things that grate the most. As I was driving to work this morning listening to a radio report about Syrian refugees, I remembered that I forgot to get my lunch from the fridge. I was devastated. And not about Syria. Which is shameful.
But nevertheless, my honest and immediate reaction was fairly typical of most living in the first world and in need of lunch. The closer something is to home, the more we are affected by it. Sadly, I was not quite close enough to home to bother turning around and getting my lunch. Which affected me greatly.
Perhaps it shouldn't have. But to understand my disappointment one must first understand how rare it is that I don't just make lunch for my man, but for myself too.
It's not that I don't have the best of intentions. Many is the time I've come back from the supermarket and transferred healthy little portions of champagne ham and shredded chicken to my Tupperware containers, only to leave them there till even Tupperware's magical preservation properties succumb to the inevitable slime and scum that forms around many of the things that make a home in my fridge for far longer than they should. I'm sure I'm not alone in announcing that making lunch sucks. And unlike mothers the world over, I don't even have to contend with the fussy palettes of children and the PC requirements of the schools they toddle off to with packed lunches in their bags.
The long and the short of it is that I'm just too lazy to be bothered. I feel like I was born without the gene that other women have, that sees them spend long hours in the kitchen making cakes, hearty dinners and interesting packed lunches.