What if you spilled bleach on half your wardrobe? What would you do?
Some hypothetical questions are so ridiculous that we dismiss them as absurd, laughable queries. Sadly, though, the above question is not purely hypothetical.
Last week, after returning from the final leg of our tour, fatigued and murky-headed from cross-country traversing, I separated my dirty laundry into ordinal piles, prepping each color-coded assemblage for its usual rinse and spin cycles. Then, unknowingly and stupidly, I spilled a bottle of liquid bleach on literally half the clothes, staining the floor-strewn heaps, instantly ruining the majority of my wardrobe.
I was shocked by two things.
First, I was shocked by my own brainlessness. How could I make such a ridiculous mistake? Truth be told, I simply wasn’t paying attention. There’s no other explanation. If there’s a lesson to be learned here, it’s that attention must be paid, even during the most mundane tasks.
Second, I was shocked that I wasn’t more horrified by my own idiotic mistake. I mean, I should be outraged, right? Hell, two years ago I would’ve been pissed; I would have fumed angrily and cursed the ceiling and hurled various breakable objects at one or more of my apartment walls. But last week, as sodium hypochlorite soaked through my threads, I didn’t react obnoxiously. Instead, I realized that I couldn’t control everything. I took a few deep breaths, snatched a mop from my closet, and started cleaning up the mess I’d made, recognizing that the sooner we clean up our own mess, the sooner we can move on with life.
Sure, half my attire is ruined, but everything’s fine. I’ll replace some of the clothes if I need to, but my closet isn’t upset and nor should I be. Those clothes were just clothes—replaceable things that don’t have any more meaning than the meaning I give to them. There’s no use in crying over spilt milk, or, in this case, spilt bleach.