The Point of No Return

I hate myself.

I say it or think at least once a day.

And on my first full day in The Barn, it didn’t take long for me to say it and think it.

Everything was going perfectly well. Had a great night sleep, didn’t have anywhere to be till eleven, and had enough Zone bars left to qualify for a makeshift breakfast. Aside from the cleaning lady ringing my buzzer sixty-four times (not a metaphor), the morning was perfect and at that point, I still didn’t hate myself.

But I do now.

Let me give you a the background. Since I played soccer in high school, I live under the belief that I can properly kick anything. And not just kick, but juggle. For non-soccer fans, juggling is just keeping the ball in the air without using your hands.

This belief has never really gotten me into trouble before. Kick a soccer ball, basketball, or football and you’re okay. Kick a bowling ball, a baby, or the girl from last night and you’re probably going to be arrested or hospitalized. Do all three in the same day and you’ll probably be institutionalized.

So we made our first trip (on foot) to the grocery store. Our cars don’t come in till next week, which is okay, because now I’ll get to tell my grandkids that I had to walk by a British Military base just to get my groceries (dodging bullets and teacups, no less). So when they complain that their Nintendo Wii 360 iPad doesn’t work, I’ll tell them to shut up and make me a PB&J.

We are the Paderborn Baskets. Maybe this should be the new logo.

I hate buying toilet paper. Someone always sees you and gives you that look like “I know what you’re going to do with that.” This time it was an old lady. Like a really old lady. Like old enough to have used cursive writing. Or old enough to have actually invented toilet paper. So either she was smirking because she had the intimate knowledge of why I needed toilet paper, or she was just glad that Apple hasn’t come out with iWipe and put her out of business. Yet.

But whatever, toilet paper, I needed it. Still didn’t hate myself at this point.

It was the walk home.

I knew it was a bad sign when I had to actually buy the bag for my groceries. And it’s a crappy bag. I couldn’t hold it by the handles because the contents were too heavy, and I certainly didn’t want to buy another one, so I had to get under it and hold it with my left arm while my right arm was in charge of the TP 10-Pack. It was a bit of a balancing act, but I was in complete control of the situation.

Now I’ve never worked at a grocery store (us former secretaries are above that kind of work) but I know enough to put the bread on top of the other groceries. So that’s where mine went. Twenty-plus slices of whole grain sandwich-making potential.

I don’t know if it was the walking or the military base looming over my left shoulder, but somewhere along the line I lost my focus. And as soon as I did, my balance shifted, my bag tipped, and my bread fell out of the bag.

Bread falls to the ground, who cares? It’s in plastic, after all. They don’t just hand you bare, uncovered bread in Germany. It’s not like I got it at some kind of Bread Strip Club. So when bread falls, normally it wouldn’t be a problem.

It only becomes a problem when you’re a professional idiot with a history of kicking shit that you’re not supposed to kick. So instead of letting the bread hit the ground, I kick it like I’m trying to score the game winning goal in the World Cup Final. I kicked the bag in the direct center and it exploded everywhere, leaving slice after slice on the sidewalk next to dirt, bugs, and the random left cup of a bra.

After having a quick conversation with the guys on whether or not we should call the police and report the bra, we decided that we had walked too far to go back to the store and that I’d have to live with the fact that my potential sandwich count was reduced to three before even reaching my apartment (eight slices were spared, but one was the butt so that doesn’t count).

And I'm pretty sure the slice on top touched the ground.

It’s only Monday, and I just used four slices, so it looks like Peanut Butter and Jelly Hands are going to be the menu for the rest of the week. If there’s anything to take away from this it’s that at least I learned an important life lesson:

Don’t kick bread. You idiot.

I hate myself.