It seems that even the Universe has adopted this modern business method. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, please note that I’m using poop instead of its ruder big brother. The alliteration isn’t as powerful, but it’s more palatable.
And that’s the point of a poop sandwich: to deliver bad news by layering it between two positive statements to make the negative part of the message more palatable.
My week was in fact the big daddy, multilayered, Dagwood sandwich of all poop sandwiches. And yet, here I am, able to make light of it. One of my many mad skills!
There was a moment last week when I actually thought, “Really, Universe, what else can go wrong??” Asked, and answered. From experience I can now say, with surety, that something else can always go wrong. The takeaway: NEVER ask that question.
Everything started out great. I had just been thinking I was ready to do something new, different, exciting, and, voila! Two invitations were extended to me, and I gratefully accepted both. YAY!
Then, even though I was extra-careful, I re-injured my shoulder taking my son’s wheelchair in and out of the car. (A car I’d rented specifically to make it easy on me because I was finally out of pain.) No good deed… Back to Dr. Barbara. POOP!
The next morning I had a breast cancer scare. There’s no confusing a couple of lumps in your breast for anything else. Off to the doctor, then I waited days for a radiology appointment. I kept it to myself in order to minimize the energy I was directing it’s way, and I controlled my worry by adopting a “Wait until I know something” attitude. POOP!
After three hours at the radiology center, a sonogram… and because that didn’t look good, a diagnostic mammogram, the conclusion was NO CANCER. YAY!
When I got home that night my sweetie was excited for me over my good news, and also because a large box had arrived for me. “It’s your new Tory Burch bag, don’t you want to open it?” I couldn’t match his enthusiasm. Hours later he reminded me. “Why don’t you open it for me?” I asked.
He got out his knife, opened the box and then stepped back, his tone reverential, “No, I think you need to do this.”
Curiosity dragged me off the sofa. Inside the box was a large glossy sheet of brilliant orange paper. Inside was my bag, swaddled in bubble wrap, with every portion of it individually wrapped in foam as soft as a baby’s skin. Impressive. This was the replacement for a bag I had splurged on three years ago who’s strap broke. I wanted that same bag, but on impulse, ordered it in a new color. And, it’s perfect. YAY!
Now, can somebody please tell me what this thingy is for?