You cannot Instacart your way out of grief.
The other day I really wanted a sandwich. Not just a regular sandwich but a homemade sandwich. The type of sandwich that only YOU can get right from your own kitchen.
I didn't want a deli sandwich that was already made and wrapped up from the store. Those sandwiches are good. But it's not what I wanted.
I didn't want a Subway sandwich or any of the other similar chains. Those sometimes hit the spot. But that's not what I wanted.
I wanted to make myself the perfect sandwich. The perfect sandwich with just the right ratio of mayo-to-mustard with the perfect sized sliced tomato. And only I knew what that looked like.
I can already hear what you're saying, "then just make yourself a GD sandwich!"
I know, I hear you. I completely agree and understand. Just make a sandwich already!
But I couldn't. I couldn't because there was something preventing me from getting up out of my bed and walking the 10 or so steps to my kitchen and opening the fridge and pulling out a cutting board and knife and getting out the bread and picking the perfect tomato and washing the lettuce and chopping the lettuce and maybe toasting the bread (shoot do I want to toast my bread? Then I'll need to get the toaster out.) and slicing the cheese all of this to construct the perfect sandwich...
I couldn't. I couldn't make the perfect sandwich because I didn't have bread. So I cried.
I couldn't. I couldn't make the perfect sandwich because I didn't have any deli slices. So I cried.
I couldn't. I couldn't make the perfect sandwich because the lettuce we had wasn't fresh enough. So I cried.
I couldn't. I couldn't make the perfect sandwich because I couldn't get out of bed.
I could not get out of bed.
It's possible that I laid in bed only to unearth for the essentials for a few days or maybe I didn't even get to the essentials, I'm not entirely sure. or maybe it was a week or maybe it was 100 years. However long it was, the only thing that I could do was lay in bed. I laid in my bed and I cried.
At the end of 100 years I had a thought, "TODAY I WILL GET OUT OF BED." And then I wrote myself a note:
I will figure out how to make a sandwich. If I could accomplish anything after 100 years of crying in bed it would be to make a perfect sandwich!
I was going to get out of bed, change my clothes and maybe brush my hair, definitely brush my teeth, put on shoes, and walk the 30 or so steps to my car and get inside and drive the 8 or so miles to the grocery store and find the perfect lettuce and a ripe avocado....
I downloaded Instacart.
I stayed in bed and went shopping. I selected the right brand of bread and decided it would be easier for the pre-cut slices of cheese. I crossed my fingers for the delivery of a ripe avocado (and noted so in the request) but didn't have high hopes. I did it. The perfect sandwich was almost on it's way. Check out!
That was easy. I am now 100% on the road to recovery because all I need is a homemade sandwich.
I went back to sleep and in a few minutes or maybe a few hours or something in between, watched Stephanie (my fabulous Instacart deliverer) set the bags outside of my gate and walk away. Now I had to really get out of bed...
So I got up and walked the 15 or so steps to my gate and pulled my bags inside and proceeded to make the perfect sandwich.
The lettuce was fresh and my tomato slices were just right. I decided I didn't want to toast the bread (that would just be too decadent after not eating for a few days or 100 years) Out of the 3 avocados one of them was sandwich perfection. This was already feeling like a great choice. I sliced that perfect sandwich in half and it might have been the best sandwich of my whole entire life.
I washed my dishes. Drank some water. Caught up on a few episodes of whatever is on Hulu or Netflix or Amazon, who knows. I might have brushed my teeth and maybe I changed into a different set of comfy clothes only suitable for lounging but it started to feel heavy again.
The perfect sandwich didn't fix me.
The grief. It was still there.
I went back to bed. I cried.
What I really needed on that day, in that moment, was to get up and get out of bed. I should have unearthed and stumbled the 30 or so steps to my car and driven the 8 or so miles to the grocery store I should've found my own avocados and picked out my one tomato and told the cashier that I was having a good day when she said "how are you?" I can imagine that question would have made me want to cry but I would not have cried to the cashier and I would be able to get through the next 20 or so minutes that it took to check out and drive back to my house and proceeded to make the perfect sandwich.
But I didn't.
I found Instacart and Stephanie did the hard thing for me and I was able to continue to wallow in my grief for another 100 or so years (or maybe it was a week or a month or a few days, who knows)
Although we've been here before. It never feels the same. The first time I didn't understand it. The second time I tried to be strong. The third time broke me a little. The fourth time didn't linger too long. And now? This time seems to have floored me. It feels like a bad hangover that you think you've gotten over until you try to get out of bed - so you lay back down (for another 100 years)
My heart will get where it needs to be eventually. My heart will make a full recovery but for now, all I'm going to do is recognize that I can't Instacart my way through it.
I didn't want a deli sandwich that was already made and wrapped up from the store. Those sandwiches are good. But it's not what I wanted.
I didn't want a Subway sandwich or any of the other similar chains. Those sometimes hit the spot. But that's not what I wanted.
I wanted to make myself the perfect sandwich. The perfect sandwich with just the right ratio of mayo-to-mustard with the perfect sized sliced tomato. And only I knew what that looked like.
I can already hear what you're saying, "then just make yourself a GD sandwich!"
I know, I hear you. I completely agree and understand. Just make a sandwich already!
But I couldn't. I couldn't because there was something preventing me from getting up out of my bed and walking the 10 or so steps to my kitchen and opening the fridge and pulling out a cutting board and knife and getting out the bread and picking the perfect tomato and washing the lettuce and chopping the lettuce and maybe toasting the bread (shoot do I want to toast my bread? Then I'll need to get the toaster out.) and slicing the cheese all of this to construct the perfect sandwich...
I couldn't. I couldn't make the perfect sandwich because I didn't have bread. So I cried.
I couldn't. I couldn't make the perfect sandwich because I didn't have any deli slices. So I cried.
I couldn't. I couldn't make the perfect sandwich because the lettuce we had wasn't fresh enough. So I cried.
I couldn't. I couldn't make the perfect sandwich because I couldn't get out of bed.
I could not get out of bed.
It's possible that I laid in bed only to unearth for the essentials for a few days or maybe I didn't even get to the essentials, I'm not entirely sure. or maybe it was a week or maybe it was 100 years. However long it was, the only thing that I could do was lay in bed. I laid in my bed and I cried.
At the end of 100 years I had a thought, "TODAY I WILL GET OUT OF BED." And then I wrote myself a note:
I will figure out how to make a sandwich. If I could accomplish anything after 100 years of crying in bed it would be to make a perfect sandwich!
I was going to get out of bed, change my clothes and maybe brush my hair, definitely brush my teeth, put on shoes, and walk the 30 or so steps to my car and get inside and drive the 8 or so miles to the grocery store and find the perfect lettuce and a ripe avocado....
I downloaded Instacart.
I stayed in bed and went shopping. I selected the right brand of bread and decided it would be easier for the pre-cut slices of cheese. I crossed my fingers for the delivery of a ripe avocado (and noted so in the request) but didn't have high hopes. I did it. The perfect sandwich was almost on it's way. Check out!
That was easy. I am now 100% on the road to recovery because all I need is a homemade sandwich.
I went back to sleep and in a few minutes or maybe a few hours or something in between, watched Stephanie (my fabulous Instacart deliverer) set the bags outside of my gate and walk away. Now I had to really get out of bed...
So I got up and walked the 15 or so steps to my gate and pulled my bags inside and proceeded to make the perfect sandwich.
The lettuce was fresh and my tomato slices were just right. I decided I didn't want to toast the bread (that would just be too decadent after not eating for a few days or 100 years) Out of the 3 avocados one of them was sandwich perfection. This was already feeling like a great choice. I sliced that perfect sandwich in half and it might have been the best sandwich of my whole entire life.
I washed my dishes. Drank some water. Caught up on a few episodes of whatever is on Hulu or Netflix or Amazon, who knows. I might have brushed my teeth and maybe I changed into a different set of comfy clothes only suitable for lounging but it started to feel heavy again.
The perfect sandwich didn't fix me.
The grief. It was still there.
I went back to bed. I cried.
What I really needed on that day, in that moment, was to get up and get out of bed. I should have unearthed and stumbled the 30 or so steps to my car and driven the 8 or so miles to the grocery store I should've found my own avocados and picked out my one tomato and told the cashier that I was having a good day when she said "how are you?" I can imagine that question would have made me want to cry but I would not have cried to the cashier and I would be able to get through the next 20 or so minutes that it took to check out and drive back to my house and proceeded to make the perfect sandwich.
But I didn't.
I found Instacart and Stephanie did the hard thing for me and I was able to continue to wallow in my grief for another 100 or so years (or maybe it was a week or a month or a few days, who knows)
Although we've been here before. It never feels the same. The first time I didn't understand it. The second time I tried to be strong. The third time broke me a little. The fourth time didn't linger too long. And now? This time seems to have floored me. It feels like a bad hangover that you think you've gotten over until you try to get out of bed - so you lay back down (for another 100 years)
My heart will get where it needs to be eventually. My heart will make a full recovery but for now, all I'm going to do is recognize that I can't Instacart my way through it.
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