I had a stroke this morning.
Well, not technically, but I was rendered immobile by a threatening roach I saw in the apartment after I ate breakfast. It rested on the wall jeering at me, taunting me to drop my coffee mug and eyeliner. I emitted soft, painful moans, but my roommates were away, and no one could hear my desperate cries for help. And then it vanished.
My first instinct was to call my mother. I took a deep breath and reminded myself I was a grown up, a 24 year old working woman, and that I had to learn to handle crises without calling mommy.
I emailed her instead.
I told my mother I was going to come home to New Jersey, where the only pest is lovable Charlie the Groundhog, who has comfortably burrowed under our patio. I said I was moving out of New York City forever, that I was never again wearing shorts, that I was going to throw out all of my food and bedding. She told me to be brave, to remember that I am slightly bigger than the cockroach, and then resorted to her favorite retort ("wow. idiot."), before realizing that I truly was a hopeless mess.
She then tried a new approach. "Ruch, of course you are always welcome home. It is your home. But, never run from your fears."
"Mumma, we're talking about a roach. Like, a cockroach."
"Yes, beta."
And so, with direction from my perpetually profound mother, I went to bed in my own place in Manhattan, wearing a ski mask and sneakers, with all of the lights on and my left eye open.
I fell asleep during the staff meeting today, but I didn't let the terrorists win. Thanks, Mumma.
Well, not technically, but I was rendered immobile by a threatening roach I saw in the apartment after I ate breakfast. It rested on the wall jeering at me, taunting me to drop my coffee mug and eyeliner. I emitted soft, painful moans, but my roommates were away, and no one could hear my desperate cries for help. And then it vanished.
My first instinct was to call my mother. I took a deep breath and reminded myself I was a grown up, a 24 year old working woman, and that I had to learn to handle crises without calling mommy.
I emailed her instead.
I told my mother I was going to come home to New Jersey, where the only pest is lovable Charlie the Groundhog, who has comfortably burrowed under our patio. I said I was moving out of New York City forever, that I was never again wearing shorts, that I was going to throw out all of my food and bedding. She told me to be brave, to remember that I am slightly bigger than the cockroach, and then resorted to her favorite retort ("wow. idiot."), before realizing that I truly was a hopeless mess.
She then tried a new approach. "Ruch, of course you are always welcome home. It is your home. But, never run from your fears."
"Mumma, we're talking about a roach. Like, a cockroach."
"Yes, beta."
And so, with direction from my perpetually profound mother, I went to bed in my own place in Manhattan, wearing a ski mask and sneakers, with all of the lights on and my left eye open.
I fell asleep during the staff meeting today, but I didn't let the terrorists win. Thanks, Mumma.
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