The Last Straw

     What is the last straw and when does it occur?  Is it the moment right before you lose your mind or is it the time that precedes going off the deep end when you are painstakingly going through each straw coming dangerously close to the last one?  You know, when your kids are bouncing on your last nerve and you are 1/16 of an inch of wringing their precious little necks.  It is the moment when you begin to count at the top of your lungs and the time bomb in your head is ticking…loudly.

         Sometimes the last straw comes at that precise moment when everything that can go wrong does go wrong and only praying to G0d above can save you.  Usually in his divine wisdom, He chooses to save your butt because if you have ever noticed somehow, someway life goes on regardless.  There is always a life lesson attached because it wouldn’t be life if we didn’t live and learn and gain a little wisdom from each trip into the pits of our own personal hell.

       Like most people I have seen my last straw.  I have been there and done that and have no doubt before I go toe up I will get to that last straw again probably many times over.  I will blow a blood vessel, hyperventilate, ultimately calm down, find the way, and life will continue with a new box of straws.  Even the most even tempered folks ultimately have to go through a lot of straws.  Then you have the more explosive sort who probably knocks off a box of straws a day.  Thank heavens for the mellowing effects of aging.  If it weren’t for the beauty of aging and the natural progression of learning not to sweat the small stuff, many of us, me included, would have blown our entire life’s supply of straws in our youth.  I blew so many straws when I was younger that I have noticed myself using up fewer and fewer as I age.  I pick the battles I can win now, and don’t blow my straws on lost causes.

         Even though my fuse has lengthened over the years, I have seen a whole box of straws blown in one instance that can be chalked up to the pre-menopause hormones that bring on Towanda moments worthy of scenes from the classic movie “Fried Green Tomatoes” or that classic moment in “The Father of the Bride” when Steve Martin’s character decides he is no longer getting screwed over by the conspiracy between the hot dog and bun companies forcing people to buy more buns than they need.  Yes, given the opportunity I am capable of losing it on the gargantuan proportions that can rival both notorious scenes.

        Providence knows, with two relatively young children who have yet to reach the dreaded teenage years, I probably haven’t even begun to touch on the stock pile of straws I will go through during that stage of life.  I have heard horror stories, and for now I am completely content to deal with the small stuff using up my stock pile of straws slowly, deliberately and with precision until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.