Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

Adulthood is hard.

I don't want to say how old I am. I have become one of those over-thirty women who just can't face their age, for whom they design lame thirtyish birthday cards. ("I'm actually twenty-nine--forever!") Maybe it's because I haven't lived, and so it seems...a failure to have reached this age. And done so little.

Anyway. This morning I woke up and I thought my refrigerator had died. So I called my landlord, who came over, which is when we discovered that I merely needed to defrost it. Cue scenes of great embarrassment and patheticness. Patheticity. I'm thirtysomething years old and before today I had never learned how to defrost a fridge. I mean, sure, I chipped away at the ice now and then. And of course I knew that there was this formal process called "defrosting." But I hadn't put two and two together and figured out a functional response to my fridge's icy woes, even though I've lived on my own for about fourteen years.

Time to break out the whiskey.

Whiskey and pancakes.


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