I started my morning at the eye doctor, dealing with the ongoing drama that is my cataract surgery recovery on my “funky eye” — the one that’s been permanently damaged since childhood. They dilated it, scanned it, tested it, shined lights into it… the whole trauma experience. By the time I left, I felt like I’d been emotionally tortured.
I rushed home to meet the electrician who was installing pendant lights over my kitchen island. The second he walked in, I remembered — with the clarity of a woman who is absolutely not winning today — that I forgot to buy lightbulbs.
Of course I did.
So off I went to Home Depot, stumbling into the lighting aisle like a vampire who’d taken a wrong turn.
It was so bright in there that a normal person would’ve needed sunglasses. Me? With my freshly‑dilated, battle‑worn eye?
The light was so piercing I genuinely thought I might start shouting out confessions. Isn’t this how CIA interrogations start? A single bulb. A metal chair. A broken woman.
I stood there, blinking like I had just been shot with a taser, laughing out loud at the ridiculousness of my life. Because honestly — who else ends up in Home Depot, half‑blind, post‑surgery, trying to buy lightbulbs?