Mr. Apron and I have been together for over six years now, and we’ve had our ups and downs in health issues, been through countless jobs, seemingly endless schooling, and lived in a multitude of places together and apart.  We’ve had those days when no evil things dare to rear their heads into our idyllic lives; and those days where nothing seems to go right.  It’s the latter that spurred a ritual we do called, “One Good Thing”.  On those worst of worst, those Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Days, we ask each other, “What was your Good Thing?”  The idea is, that even if you spend 45 minutes venting about project deadlines, GI issues, nightmare coworkers, the weather, green phlegm, being splattered with red paint, or Rush Limbaugh, there must be one small thing, event, or happening which, if it didn’t brighten your day while it was happening, may just bring you into a better mood at the moment.  Sometimes it’s really hard to come up with one, but we do it to humor each other. 

Some examples might include (for me) a compliment on my new skirt, a cute kid story, or not running into someone objectionable.  Some examples for Mr. Apron might include going a day without getting into a passive-aggressive argument with his boss, teaching a kid something, figuring out a new feature on his phone (Hello, e-mail!), or finding a shirt he thought was lost forever.  On really bad days, we have to stretch.  They’re lame.  It could be finding one last Coke in the back of the fridge; not having to make a lunch because of leftovers; remembering to bring in the groceries from thec car; looking foward to tomorrow being Friday; having enough bags for the dog’s shit; or having a “clean shit”.  But we always pull it together, even if our Good Thing is getting to talk to each other about our bad days.  Though it’s a cop-out, we often end up being each other’s Good Things. 

Today was not a horrendous day by any means, but if you’d asked me my Good Thing, I’d say it would be finding out that the garage door opener works.  Not so long ago, after a long day gardening and making repeat trips to the garage and basement, I sent the opener through the wash with my mud- and grass-caked cargo shorts.  Usually it’s Mr. Apron sending his lip balm through the wash, leaving wax marks all over my t-shirts.  This time it was me, effectively locking us out of our garage, because though it’s an attached garage (in the basement), there’s no entrance to the house from the garage.  1928.  Go figure.  You have to leave the garage, go outside to the parking pad, then in the basement door.  Quirks, ya gotta love ’em.  One of these days we’ll pay some angsty teenagers in pizza to take sledge hammers to the non-load-bearing walls and break on through to the other side, giving us access to the garage for real.  But today, as we were loading up some colors into the washing machine, Mr. Apron absent-mindedly grabbed the garage door opener and clicked it.  Lo and behold, we heard that familiar groaning and cranking as the beast roared to life once again.  I didn’t break it!  YAY!

What was your good thing?

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