Just a Sandwich

Miranda put the tiny plate into the sink and immediately felt guilt. How many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches had she consumed in her lifetime? Hundreds of bright white squares with their mushy brown and purple interiors, eaten and forgotten as quickly as they were made. How many opportunities for something new and mind-blowing had she missed? After all, “extraordinary” meant “beyond ordinary” and what was more ordinary in a single woman’s life than a PB & J?

As Miranda washed the plate and knife, she imagined what she should have made instead. She’d yet to try an egg baked inside half an avocado, buffalo cauliflower, or a roasted fennel salad. She had a boxful of recipes written on bits of paper and a collection of cookbooks threatening to collapse a shelf in a kitchen. She calculated that she had maybe 10,000 meals left if she cooked at least once a day and a couple times on the weekend.

 How had living each day like it was my last turned into living it like it was last night? She sat in the chair by the window and put her head between her knees to reverse the scorching panic that had started in her stomach and was burning its way up to her throat.

For the past few years, whenever she read or watched stories of tragic death, she was struck by how every person always said between sobs that they never thought that it would happen to them. Miranda was certain that it would, indeed, happen to her. She had no doubt that cancer, probably the stealthy and fast melanoma, would take her out in a matter of months when it was discovered. She knew a bus was poised and ready to strike her down as she mindlessly crossed streets on her pre-dawn runs. She knew her limbs would fail before her mind and she’d be trapped in a prison of unmoving and unfeeling flesh. She was more than ready for the dementia to set in and make her body do things and go places it shouldn’t.

Sitting in the chair, she whispered to the room, “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is a gift, which is why it’s called the present.” Each day she received a little message from carpediem.com that forced her to examine how she would live life to the fullest that day. She made notes: take pictures of the two cute seagulls who dominate the courtyard; make Ethiopian food; stand on the Ha’Penny Bridge for a full five minutes; try sketching in charcoal; pick a flower; watch the sunset or the sunrise—no, do both!”

She mostly followed the lists and suggestions, occasionally going off script and pleasing herself with some spontaneous moment seizing—stopping to watch a street performer; kneeling to pet a stray cat; lying in bed for an hour just to enjoy the freshly washed sheets.

But lately, more often than not, she has having more PB&J moments than avocado and it terrified her. She had started taking short showers instead of the long contemplative lavender scented baths; the Real Housewives franchise was edging out BBC, and she often arrived at work not remembering one object or face she encountered on the way. The moments were slipping away one by one.

She opened her laptop and googled “inspirational quotes” and decided the first one that came up would guide her towards some meaningful action.

“The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience.”—Eleanor Roosevelt

Exactly! A trip to an exotic locale would lift her out of this rut. She imagined standing arms wide to the sky at Machu Picchu or twirling beneath the Northern Lights in Lapland.

“You must live life in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this.”—Henry David Thoreau.

She sighed, suddenly relieved not to have to go through the hassle of on-line booking, inefficient airports, and inaccurate travel guides. Not to mention, she only had enough funds to get to where Ryanair would take her in western Europe.

No more wasting her life on carbs and bad TV. For the next few weeks she blogged “30 Small Things I’m Thankful for” which included pictures of her duvet and Vitamax, walked a different route home each day, cooked every recipe from 100 Curries of the World, and sat on a bench in the courtyard at sunset.

Yet anxiety accompanied her on each of these activities. She chewed slowly to focus on the flavour, desperately trying to appreciate it enough. She strained to take in every detail; fretting over if she was doing mindfulness correctly, feeling disappointed when dancing in the rain just left her soggy and cold. To suck more marrow out of each day, she started staying up late, journaling obsessively so as not to forget the wonders of the minutiae of the day.

But then she suffered a cold and could do nothing but lie on the sofa. She closed the curtains to sunsets and sunrises, and watched reality TV. One day she felt well enough to bring home a bottle of wine and takeout and felt amazing, then sick, then nothing.  She slept for two days. The third day she woke feeling ravenous, chest and nasal passages clear. A jolt of energy propelled her from the bed and she went to the kitchen.

Staring at a nearly overripe avocado, she began to sweat and breathe unevenly. It’s time to start living again! Time to grab life by the horns and make each nanosecond, each morsel, each breath astounding!

 But suddenly, a sense of calm overcame her as she grabbed the familiar jars. Her breathing slowed and her mind cleared. After all, she thought, it’s just a sandwich.