This morning I ran out of hot water in the shower, which is not surprising since I was the third or fourth to shower before school. The loss felt more than irritating; I felt personally insulted, as if my housemates’ lack of consideration were somehow personal. I felt as if the universe were neglecting me. “Poor, motherless me. Nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I'm going to go eat worms.”
And then I thought of Haiti. And what it means to have a shower stall. In a house. To have all that water available to me for washing.
And, of course, I was ashamed.
And then I was even more ashamed for using Haiti—-the huge, unthinkable, un-wrappable-by-my-brain tragedy of everything—-as a prod for my piddling, shallow little insight. As if I had used the edge of a chainsaw to pry up a nail. How dare I think of Haiti and use it as a reason to be grateful for a SHOWER?
But how else—tell me!—how else can I possibly think about it?