Parmesan brooms.

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There are some things that you aren’t equipped to deal with when you are in a hurry or overtired or just plained stressed by life: a flat tire, being out of coffee, war, etc.

Like parmesan brooms.

A few weeks ago, I knocked a container of grated parmesan onto the kitchen floor. This became a crisis rather quickly because a) my spaghetti was getting cold and b) I had had a pretty terrible day already. I nearly cried.

Our kitchen floor, along with 900 other things in the house, needs replacing; it’s 12+ year old peel-and-stick linoleum with gaps between squares. How the hell does one clean that up?

A broom was absolutely out of the question; that stuff will stick to the bristles and make the house stick so badly a HAZMAT team will break down the door within days. I didn’t want to sacrifice a broom for such a small problem.

I don’t have a dog, and the cat, as gluttonous as he is, doesn’t have a taste for stinky cheese.

A vacuum would be a 100% disaster; even if it wasn’t a bagless model, the idea of hot, cheesy air blowing out of it was (is) beyond disgusting.

Scraping the detritus up with a piece of cardboard and a dustpan might just push cheese into the gaps between tiles and cause similar problems to the broom issue.

In my fragile, and famished, state, this tiny woe seemed absolutely insurmountable for several minutes.

If I were an entrepreneur, I would turn this into a metaphor for life that was sellable in a Tony Robbins kind of way. There are so many paths of inconvenience for (smell notwithstanding) minor problems; the fact that I was having an existential crisis over a spilled dairy product seemed like it should be the basis for something much grander, and potentially lucrative (either financially or spiritually).

But I’m no Buddha. Instead, I laughed at my own ridiculous knack for overthinking, opted for the cardboard and dustpan combo (followed by a lot of soapy water applied to floor and dustpan), and ate my spaghetti, sans parmesan, and had a second glass of wine instead.

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