This week, I spent $700 on a new microwave.
Not because I wanted to. Not because I suddenly felt inspired to become the kind of person who meal preps. Not even because it was a “nice to have” or on sale.
I bought it because my old one, an over-the-range model, naturally, flatlined with an F6 error code and zero warning. One day it was heating leftovers, the next it was flashing its final middle finger while I stood there like, cool. perfect. absolutely no notes, Universe.
You know that feeling when you’re already on edge? Financially…emotionally…existentially…and then something breaks? Not something huge, just annoying and expensive enough to knock the air out of your lungs?
Yeah. That.
This wedding’s in four months. We’re trying to pay vendors, juggle bills, and make things feel “special” on a spreadsheet that is fully allergic to surprise costs. I’m freelancing like hell: writing blog posts, running marketing strategy, consulting for tech startups, while wondering how many more invoices I have to send to feel like I’m not drowning in slow payments and late-stage capitalism.
And then the microwave dies. And it’s not even a $99 countertop situation. It’s a $700 commitment because, of course, it is.
Of course it is.
It’s always these tiny-but-not-so-tiny things that break you when you’re already maxed out. A microwave. A car battery. A random school fee. A minor appliance failure that somehow tips your entire nervous system into full-blown what even is the point anymore? territory.
And still, you keep going. Because you have to. Because the kids need dinner and the groceries won’t buy themselves, and the work won’t do itself, and the wedding won’t magically plan itself. (Although if it could, I’d like to subscribe to that version of reality immediately.)
So yeah. I bought the microwave. I complained about it. I swore at it. I tried to laugh. I texted Keith something unhinged like, “we are canceling the sparkler sendoff so we can reheat soup.”
But I didn’t unravel. Not completely. And that counts for something.
Because this is the season I’m in. The messy middle. The part where I’m exhausted and overstretched and doing it anyway. The part where life feels like a string of little fires, and I’m the one running around barefoot with a spray bottle, trying to keep them from taking the whole house down.
There’s no neat little lesson here. No glowy wrap-up. Just this: if you, too, feel like the wheels are coming off and you’re expected to keep driving anyway? You’re not alone.
Come sit by me. Bring snacks. The new microwave works fine. For now.