Of all the reasons not to have water available, the failure of an electrical pump ranks solidly in the category of a first-world problem. I got a jug of spring water at the grocery store and silently gave thanks that I decided on a composting toilet.
The nearer end of the park has a temporary supply of water, but here in the meadowland, not so much as a trickle comes from the faucet. I’m wildly glad that I showered at 6:00 a.m. Sometimes I wait until evening, since I have no office to which I must go disguised as a lawyer.
I melted a block of ice that I created in the freezer for the evaporative cooler which I returned (twenty-five dollars deducted for shipping) and boiled the leftover water in the kettle to wash dishes. Fortunately I have clean socks and plenty of leggings, because laundry didn’t get done today. If I had kept that Honeywell gizmo, I’d have to sacrifice the four trays of ice cubes which might become tomorrow’s wash-water, at least for my teeth and the few areas of my body which will need it if the temperature climbs too high.
But I don’t see this as suffering. I focus on the remaining Thai soccer players trapped deep in a cave on the other side of a fifteen-inch turn with water rising and oxygen dwindling. I meditate on the plight of hundreds of children torn from their parents who came to America to save them from violent gangs, drugs, war, and hunger. I stare in horror at the picture of a 91-year-old grandfather beaten with bricks in Los Angeles and told to “go back to Mexico”.
I look around at the three small fans creating a cross breeze. I gaze over at my ceiling fan and the little USB personal cooler clamped on my kitchen self. I remember that I can always drive back to town and get more bottles of the spring water which cost just a dollar for two liters. I understand how fortunate I am, that the water will be restored tomorrow when the electrician comes and works magic on that pump. We’ll forget about the twenty-four hours when nobody here could bathe.
Even with the worries which wake me in the middle of the night, I keenly feel the blessings that I often take for granted. Like running water, no matter that it’s just for 364 days this particular year. No whining here. I’ll endure my #firstworldproblems and soldier on.
It’s the ninth day of the fifty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.