It is with no small irony that I find myself crying over spilled milk several times a week. I have not developed the knack for properly cutting open milk bags to put in the milk jug and hence, milk dribbles all over when I first try to pour some.
My reaction is always the same – outsized outrage accompanied by threats of physical harm to the inventor of the plastic milk bag. Even as I lose it, I am aware of the irony that I am disobeying the time-worn injunction and crying over milk that has spilled. My anger intensified one day when I was informed that people the world over do not all get their milk in plastic bags. I don’t know the details of that, but it seems clear someone has it out for the unfortunate citizens of the province of Ontario in central Canada where I live in various states of spilled milk-induced discontent.
My wife’s reaction to each of my meltdowns is always the same. She comes with a dishcloth to clean up the mess, lets out a long sigh, and says in a sing-songy voice, “It’s not the end of the world.”
This difference in approach to tiny nuisances probably explains why we are into our third decade of marriage. If we were both of exactly the same temperament, we probably would have burned down somebody’s house by now. Maybe our own. We might have even hunted down a few cows after midnight.
But we carry on. She opens milk bags with the precision of a heart surgeon. I open the bags as though I was using a rusty set of bolt cutters to do it.
The stupidest saying in the world is, “Don’t cry over spilled milk.” What an arrogant command. If any situation you might encounter in life ever justified crying, spilled frickin’ milk is the one!
©2012 Jim Hagarty
