Lately I’ve been feeling like a teacup. (I blame all my crazy thoughts on the pandemic.) I’m feeling like a cup that’s seen better days. Broken and glued back together time and again as my COVID mood waxes and wanes.
My late mother collected teacups. Most of the cups in her collection were delicate porcelain. Almost too fragile to drink from. They had graceful curved handles and were covered with tiny painted flowers. A tea set Mom purchased on a trip to Japan was made of porcelain so delicate it was see-through. When you held the bottom of a Japanese cup to the light, the face of a beautiful geisha appeared. It was magical.
Mom’s been gone a long time now, and her teacups are long gone, too, lost in moves or broken. Except for one. The last cup standing is the one we always called her “ugly” cup. It’s oddly shaped. Made of clay, not porcelain. It’s clunky and sturdy. The pottery glaze is unappealing: dull black, yellow and green splotches. Not the kind of cup you sip from at an elegant tea party.
Mom purchased it in Matamoros, Mexico, in the 1940s, during her brief career as an Eastern Airlines stewardess. I see her in my mind’s eye, young and vivacious, heading from Brownsville with her flight crew to seek adventure south of the border. The cup was likely a spontaneous purchase from a vendor at an open-air market.
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As a child, I asked Mom why she bought such an ugly cup. It stuck out like a sore thumb next to the pretty dainty ones. She told me it was an important part of her collection. Just like life, she said, it added some variety. She picked up the cup and turned it over in her hands. “And besides, it’s a reminder life is not always perfect.” Widowed at 35 and left with three young children to raise, she knew life’s imperfections well.
Since the middle of March, teacup Sharon has been broken and patched up countless times. A video call from my grandkids is strong glue. A petty argument with my husband breaks me into pieces. I shatter after forgetting to wear a mask when answering the door for a FedEx driver.
Then a kind note from a friend is received in the mail, and the shattered pieces go back into place. Crack and patch, patch and crack. It never ends. I’m on a roller coaster of crazy COVID moodiness.
I’m tired of all this social distancing. I’m sick of being paranoid about everything I touch or fearful of every person I speak to. (Are the two of us 6 feet apart? Hmmm, why aren’t you wearing a mask?) The uncertainty about everything is driving me mad. I’m a people person, and I can’t be with my peeps!
There are times I wish I were a perfect teacup. But that’s not me. I feel more like Mom’s ugly cup, old and ungainly. But the more I think about it, maybe embracing life as the ugly cup isn’t such a bad thing. After all, that homely cup is a survivor.
She’s stayed the course for years, while the fragile teacups have come and gone, broken and cracked, buried in landfills. Ugly cup is sturdy. She knows life’s imperfections. Come to think of it, she’s really my kind of gal. Bring on the tea!
I found a quote from the late sci-fi writer Douglas Adams that seems apropos for my teacup madness: “A cup of tea would restore my normality.” If he were still here, no doubt Mr. Adams would be gulping gallons of tea and surely collecting ideas for his next great sci-fi novel. Wear your masks! Peace out, friends.
