The person who stocks the vending machines in our office was obviously in last night or this morning, because there are magically new rows of baby donuts where previously there were none. Although I was happy to see that, what I was NOT happy to note was that, for the fourth time in a row, the restocking genie has failed to notice the package of crushed cookies dominating row E6. Today I was just peeved enough to jot down the number "If you have trouble with this machine, call . . ." and I called to give them what for.

The guy on the other end of the line was very nice and sympathetic, and he commiserated with me about how frustrating it was not to be able to get what one wanted, and he agreed that no one would ever be desperate enough for sugar to pay $1.25 for a bag of cookie crumbs (especially if there were baby donuts right next door), and he thanked me for bringing it to his attention so he can use it as a training tool for the people who do the restocking. This was clearly a person who had received excellent training in customer service. I felt better. I'll feel even better if he manages to get through to Cookie Man to cut his losses and remove the smooshed-up cookies so I can get at the good ones.

So I've been thinking. Is it possible that there are things I've been hanging on to myself, not wanting to admit defeat, clinging to false hope and even preventing improvement because I just can't let go? When I went down to throw in a load of laundry tonight, I saw on top of the dryer the shirt I ruined months ago by washing it in a load with something I had mistakenly thought was color-fast. Did I throw the ruined shirt away? No. I tried bleaching it. I tried soaking it overnight in bleach. I washed it with bleach. I defend those actions--nothing to lose, right? But when they didn't work, WHY couldn't I acknowledge that it was time to bid that shirt a fond farewell? I have other shirts. I'll muddle on somehow.

I can't tell you how liberating it was to toss it in the trash just now.