I hardly ever stay in Kitchener on the weekends. I had a rare social engagement in town last Saturday, which caused me to skip my usual weekend trip to St Catharines, where my mom and sister and dog live.
Knowing I’d be at my own apartment on a Saturday for the first time in a while, I emotionally wrapped my head around how the morning alone would go. I’d get up, go to the market to grab donuts and produce, then head to the Yeti for coffee and a breakfast sandwich to go and spend a few hours on my couch. It was going to be wonderful.
I built my Saturday morning plans up in my head all week. I told other humans about how I would get this specific sandwich that morning. It was what motivated me to get up and get dressed before noon that day. My entire day was based around eating this sandwich on my couch, while watching TV and drinking coffee and having a mostly perfect Saturday.
I wandered through the Kitchener Market, buying peaches and donuts before I became overwhelmed by the crowds and had to get the fuck out of there. Then I was at the Yeti, ordering my perfect breakfast to-go, standing awkwardly out front holding a toy lizard, waiting for said breakfast to be ready and drinking from my too-hot cup of coffee, trying very hard to look normal.
The hot guy who works there brought me the sandwich, I gave him the lizard and started my 30 second walk home. By this point, you probably guess what happened. While opening the door, holding too many things, I dropped the sandwich. It fell on my dusty front porch, each element coming to rest scattered across the ground. I was calm while I picked up egg and tomatoes, wiping aioli off of my welcome mat. But the calm didn’t last long.
I went inside, set down my coffee, donuts, and peaches and contemplated what had just occurred. Then came the tears. I cry a lot, pretty much everyday, but this was different. The loss of the sandwich, after all of that build up, unleashed a stream of upset about so many things I had buried away. So I was left, on what was supposed to be my perfect Saturday morning, sobbing on my couch, hungry, with my cats staring in judgement.
I wasn’t crying about the sandwich, I was crying about what the sandwich represented.