The new microwave arrived Saturday morning, bright and early. At first I hated it, probably because I kept comparing it to the old. Then I matured to the point where I no longer hated it. Now I find I no longer need to love it.
It's a microwave. It isn't perfect, like the last one, which had a certain elegant simplicity. This one seems to be trying too hard.For example, was it really necessary, GE, to have the clock display AM or PM? Like we otherwise wouldn't know? It would be like me giving my mom a greeting card and signing it, "Love, Gina DeLapa."
Smart-aleck musings aside, we're all here temporarily. One of the things I love about apartment-living is how this truth is driven home all the more. I don't need to love the microwave—I need to love my life and work, friends and family, God and neighborhood, and those I work with—though not in that order.
Who or what do you need to love? Is there a personal or household item where compromise won't do? Fortunately for me, it's not the microwave!