The Great and Small Disappointments of Life

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

In my eight decades on earth I've suffered some major disappointments: shattered romances, jobs I didn't get, novels that were rejected, and the blows of mortality in general. Recalling them means a tumbling fall into the abyss of loss and pain. So lately I shove those thoughts aside and replace them with memories of smaller disappointments, those that stung at the time, but now conjure a  smile, a chuckle, or a wry laugh.

The brownies not meant for me. After a long day at high school and a 30-minute ride on a bus seemingly devoid of shock absorbers or significant ventilation to overpower the body odor of a load of teenagers, I'd arrive home ready to stuff my face. Apples, celery, cereal, and toast were always available, but I craved sugar. My mother, however, was a nurse and not keen on an endless supply of cookies or cake. So I'd be thrilled to find a pan of brownies cooling on the counter. The thrill, however, would be smothered by the sign next to the pan: “Do not touch. These are for the PTA bake sale.”

 To this day, the smell of brownies makes me wonder how much the PTA made from that pan and what they spent the money on. I can assure you that it wasn't put toward improving cafeteria lunches.

 The canned fruit cocktail with only one cherry: Any kid back in the day knew the best thing in that can was the cherry. And any kid with a sibling probably knew that the fight was on once the can opener had done its thing. It was a sad day indeed when it wasn't my turn to get that little red treat. And it was a day nearly as sad when I got it and discovered it was merely half a cherry.

 I haven't eaten canned fruit cocktail since childhood. I get my cherry fix in the kind of cocktail I can order where a bartender will nod at my request for more than one cherry and stick as many on the decorative toothpick as it will hold.

 A coyote could outrun a roadrunner: Years of believing the opposite, thanks to those cartoons, went down the tubes when I finally sought the truth. In a sprint, a coyote in good health could overtake and capture the bird. It was months before I tamped down my disappointment by considering that the cartoon coyote wasn't in the best of shape due to the unceasing traumatic failures of all those Acme products. Perhaps the coyote should have sought products from another company. Perhaps if he had, he could have caught that pesky bird.

But then what? Would the capture mean an even greater disappointment for me? Best not to go there.

I no longer wear size 6 shoes. Some positive things have come with aging: retiring, taking advantage of senior rates, and the appetite decline that means I now wear size 6 jeans. Unfortunately, aging also means feet spread and lengthen, so I'm now in a size 8.

Sure, I still gaze longingly at shoes on the racks labeled 6. And I linger as I pass the 7s. I consider employing a shoehorn, shoving and squeezing, gritting my teeth, and ordering my cramping toes to stop complaining. But I don't.

Aging, while bringing with it many aches and pains, has so far left intact enough brain cells to send a strongly worded message to my vanity to cease and desist.