I sat with needle and thread. And tweezers and scissors. And an ice cold drink, just in case. But I sat with needle and thread and mended things that needed mending. A button here, a ripped seam there. And the zipper of my favorite bag.
The end stop had come off and when I unzipped it I really unzipped it. The teeth parting neatly all the way until none of them met. Fuck. Damn. Shit. Motherfuckingpieceofshit. I can’t take this.
It was a frustrating day. I remember that, though I don’t remember what the specific difficulty was. Some days enough is already enough and then something small is dropped on top like a rotten cherry and the world seems to fall apart around you. That zipper was the rotten cherry.
I tried halfheartedly to fit the pull back to the two separate lines of teeth but with hands shaking in frustration it didn’t happen. I cursed some more and set it aside with the end stop and the zipper pull tucked inside for me to tackle another day.
And tucked away it stayed for several months waiting for a day I had the wherewithal to deal with it. Yesterday was the day of much wherewithal as I tackled a mountain tiny tasks that needed tending to. But fixing the zipper on my favorite bag gave me, by far, the most satisfaction. So much so that I felt like celebrating.
As is so often the case, it’s the little things that make or break me.