One day last week, I got sick and did what I always do: dug through the junk drawer, searching for meds that aren’t for allergies, my back, or the dog that passed two years ago. Somehow, I found a Goody’s Powder that my heart swears is only a couple of years old, but my head knows came from that last Spring Break trip to New Orleans, two years before the first of my Millennial children were born.
There I am, standing in my kitchen at 6 a.m., hair doing whatever it wants, wrapped in a robe that’s seen things and has the scars to prove it. I lean on the counter, staring at that Goody’s packet like it’s a tiny Southern grandmother whispering “bless your heart, take this"- both offering help and calling me an idiot at the same time. I take it.
I shuffle through the house doing the morning routine I could perform in a blackout. Feed the cat. Start the coffee. Kick the laundry basket with my foot to see if today is the day that it magically empties itself. It doesn’t. I check my phone, see three notifications I didn’t ask for, and ignore all of them.
By the time I get in the car, the Goody’s Powder is either working, or I’ve bullied my symptoms into submission through sheer spite. Hard to tell. I drive to work with the same playlist I’ve had for twenty years, because I don’t need new music judging me. I park, take a breath, and walk in like I didn’t just swallow medicine old enough to have its own memories and possibly a social security number.
At work, I move through the day doing what needs to be done. Emails, small fires, the usual parade of tasks that show up whether I’m ready or not. Nothing dramatic — just the steady rhythm of keeping things upright, powered mostly by caffeine and whatever magic was in that Goody’s packet.
When I get home, the junk drawer is still cracked open from the morning. The empty wrapper is sitting there like a tiny, ridiculous trophy. I leave it. It earned its place. Honestly, it might be the most triumphant thing I accomplished all day.
That’s how it goes: you wake up, deal with whatever version of yourself shows up, keep moving, and try not to operate anything with blades. It’s not heroic. It’s just life — and sometimes the funniest part is realizing you made it through the whole day powered by caffeine, stubbornness, and a questionable packet of medicine you found in a drawer.