Peace and cheese

In the midst of freaking out over sleeping in, trying to boil the macaroni, cube the Velveta, wash the dishes and feel a tad bit guilty over using shredded colby jack instead of cubing a half-pound chunk of colby while wondering whether this would be the magical day when my cheese sauce wouldn't turn my saucepan into a gooey, crusted, steel-wool-required mess, it hit me:

No one is going to take a bite of this stuff and say: "Sarah, you didn't cube your Velveta just right. And .... is that shredded colby jack I taste? Seriously? You could have put some effort into this ..."

Go ahead and laugh, but realizing that made my morning go a lot smoother, and I didn't feel guily about showing up at noon on the dot instead of the comfortable half-hour early, as had been suggested. I showered. I put on makeup. I packed my gym bag. And I did not perfectly cube the Velveta.

Peace sometimes comes in the form of imperfectly cut cheese.

(And this was the magical day when my saucepan did not have to be scoured with steel wool and elbow grease — joys abound)