The Unraveling of Me

Do you see this bottle? It's just a glass milk bottle. This bottle about undid me today. The thing is, it could be a bottle or a shoe in the hallway or the cheese wrapper in my couch, but this month, today, it was a glass bottle. I actually passed the test, which is pretty amazing knowing my circumstances. See, I'm just about to well . . . you know. . . I have those intense hormones. I feel stressed and tired and irritable. I ran to the store at 5 o'clock right before Matt and I were to teach a temple class. I was off to pick up Matt's prescription that I forgot to pick up when I was at the store only two hours before. As I'm running out the door, I see the empty milk bottle. Hunter loves this milk, so I quickly rinse the bottle (that bottle is worth $2.50) and drive to the store. I run to the south side of the store to grab the milk. Then, I run to the north side of the store to pick up the prescription, all the while lugging the glass bottle with me. I put it all up at the cash register, and the cute little cashier says, "I can't take that bottle. It has to be cleaned out better." I say, "I did rinse it out." "I'm sorry. I can't take it." I said, "Listen, I bought the milk when it was almost out of date. We didn't even get to drink it all, but it was kind of chunky at the end. I really did rinse it out like twice." At this point I'm not making much sense, I know, but I do not want to take it back. "Sorry, I'm just telling you I can't take it." So I think: Should I just jump across the desk and scream "You're taking the freaking bottle, girl!" or do I go find the store manager or do I just take the bottle home and clean it out better. Against my natural self, I say, "Well, I guess you'll have to put the milk back." I sign my card, humbly grab my stupid, dirty milk bottle and leave the store. On the way home, I am so angry, and then I think "Seriously! Are you going to let a silly milk bottle undo you?" Yes! So when Matt gets home, I ask him, "I rinsed out that milk bottle. Do you think it looks like it's rinsed out?" "No, not really," he says. I start laughing. "Why?" he asks. When I start telling him the story, I start to cry, and when I reenact how I wanted to jump across the counter and grab the cashier by the throat, I remind him of my mental and physical state. He just pulls me into his arms, smashing my face to his chest (probably so I'll just be quiet and stop scaring him) and says, "It's okay." So I'm thinking of cleaning out the bottle and filling it with flowers. It's worth a lot more than $2.50, you know? It can be my PMS vase. If I were really great I'd bring them to the little cashier. I'm not that good though.