The World is Nuts AND...

I have it on good astrological woo-woo authority that the world isn’t slated to implode until Feb/March 2026. (Mark your calendars if you’re a planner! Perhaps with hashtag #SeismicPowerShift or simply #OhShit.)

Yet, doesn’t it feel like chaos is showing up a bit prematurely? I know I’m not the only one who thinks the world is a bit…extra…these days.

Now, I have always been a ripe target for a charming cult recruiter who promises that there is a better way (“please wait a hot minute while I grab my daughter and some underpants before hopping in your van en route to Utopia!”). And while the Obvious Big Stuff that’s happening in our country right now has me thinking about things like updating passports and stuffing my mattress full of cash, this in itself is not what has me prime for the Jon Hamm to my inner Kimmy Schmidt.

It’s the circus of Trump (scary clown version) AND having to send in 21 school treats made in a certified peanut-free facility by Tuesday.

It’s Elon Musk having unfettered access to our sensitive data AND my bunny having fur mites that force me to deep clean my house daily, while living in denial that my beloved Mitchell Gold + Bob Williams champagne shag rug, “Queen Fancy,” will survive the debacle.

It’s the fact that the words “Women,” “Black,” and “Immigrant” are banned from federal grants AND the fender bender that put my car in the shop for two weeks, forcing me into a rental SUV the size of a school bus—only to get my car back with the low tire pressure light still on.

It’s the looming threat of AI that everyone conveniently avoids AND having to replace my dilapidated fence, switch to AT&T Fiber before my internet gets cut off, clean up the DIY slime, get a Real ID before May 7, load the book fair e-wallet, buy a green shirt for Field Day, coordinate another mom for pickup so I can take my parents to that doctor's appointment, and—DAMN, DID I REMEMBER to write a note to school that Coco will be bus dismissal instead of car rider line on Thursday?

“AND” is a bitch. The undercurrent of all the heavy stuff while treading through the relentless slog that is midlife.

OMG, wouldn’t it be so totally depressing if I ended it there??

Sometimes I feel like ending it there. Just siiiigh, life is hard, I guess this is why people drink on weeknights.

Out of sheer frustration, I threw a small glass jar at the sink the other day, craving the dramatic satisfaction of watching it shatter. (Something worth mentioning to a mental health professional, perhaps.) Instead of breaking, the freakazoid glass jar literally bounced up out of the sink, hurtling–in what seemed like slow motion–toward my favorite planter, a ceramic face of a woman whose leaves form her wild, untamed hair. I watched in horror as she exploded into a million pieces. There I stood, in the middle of this tiny personal tragedy entirely of my own making, staring dumbfounded at the shards of my joy scattered around the stupid glass jar, smugly intact.

Naturally, this absurd moment of domestic destruction brought Martin Luther King Jr. to mind, because why wouldn’t it? His words echoed in my head: “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that” (loosely paraphrased as: “Don’t throw things out of anger, idiot.”).

Sure, we can get mad and throw shit. But all that does is break the good stuff—whether it's our favorite planter or our peace of mind.

So what choice do we have but to bring light to the “AND?”

AND go on a bike ride.
AND buy ourselves some tulips.
AND really listen when our child laughs.
AND go to Italy and eat gelato like our life depends on it.

Because, as it turns out, it does.

Life depends on the moments we deliberately seek joy amid chaos. Those small, simple pleasures aren’t trivial indulgences—they’re our lifelines.

And just maybe, in the end, they’re how we keep the world from imploding.