Today of all days you are in dire need of your ritual caffeine boost. Unfortunately the milk in your refrigerator is in a transformative state, going from liquid to solid, and so you are obliged to manage with a can of whipped cream. Which would be fine except that there are only enough squirts for one mug of coffee and you really are in need of refills, but "Oh well," you say, "Black is fine!."
Having adopted what you believe is a positive attitude, you go forth bravely into the daylit world. You carry your trash to the dumpster, slipping and almost tripping over random heaps of dirty old snow but, nonetheless, making it there and back without falling and breaking a single one of your elderly bones which you have been told are now certifiably brittle.
Next you attempt to vacuum cat hair off the carpet which, given the amount of shedding your cat does, is a little bit like trying to sweep the sand off a beach.
At this point, you are somewhat irritated but nowhere near what one would call upset. Then you go to retrieve the mail and discover that your health insurance has been cancelled. This makes no sense to you since you know that the monthly premium amount has been regularly deducted from your checking account. A visit to your bank's web site confirms that this is so. You go to print this evidence of fiscal responsibility only to find that your cartridge is out of ink and the two new (expensive) cartridges you just bought are the wrong ones.
You attempt to call the insurance company and are informed, after listening to a number of irrelevant messages, that their offices are closed.
You decide to spend some "down time" rocking gently and quietly in your antique bentwood rocker which is located next to a window that overlooks the courtyard of your apartment complex. This seems to work for awhile until you spy a strange man who is apparently peeing against the wall of the opposite building. You reflect that you live in a proper, mainly upper middle class, community where behaviors like this are not supposed to happen. "Perhaps the poor soul has a urinary tract disorder," you reprove yourself. It also occurs to you that your reaction is based on some snobbish sense of entitlement. I mean what qualifies you, in particular, to live out your life in an environment free of public urinators? At this point, you realize there's absolutely no sense in denying that you have become demonstrably UPSET.
You arrive at your daughter's house for dinner in an agitated state and manage to spill almost the entire contents of a pint size container of feta cheese all over the table, the chair, the floor and yourself. Pebble-sized white chunks of this substance are lodged in the grooves of the chair and a few have already been crushed and smeared under foot. With downcast eyes and burning cheeks, you quickly begin the process of cleaning up. "It kind of looks like barf," your eleven-year-old grandson comments matter of factly.
After all, what else can one possibly do.