Today I opened the freezer to take out the plastic box of spinach. Instead, though, what I did was knock off the lid and tip the spinach out into the freezer space. And do you know what happens when you reach for frozen spinach leaves? They disintegrate into a billion pieces at your fingertips and fall like stardust through the bottomless chasm of other items in freezer oblivion. And you just stare. And then, resigned, you put the lid back on to contain whatever's left and abort such a maddening, futile task. That's what happens. That's what happened.
Later on, though, the universe--or maybe just science-- sent me the equal opposite, a very delayed and spread out reaction to the unique aggravation of the spinach spilling out into the freezer. I was driving along a road I often drive, and just as a wave of intense ennui befell me, I passed a very old man outside on his driveway, playing with a remote-controlled car. And that, and the balance it provided, saved the day.