A Mint Wrapper and a Black Cat

On February 21st, a cold and bitter Wednesday, I was standing on the shuttle bus (damn you, T construction) as I rode from Brookline to Copley with my fellow, mildly depressed commuters. I didn’t feel well – but fear not, for I did not throw up, yet wouldn’t that have been brilliant foreshadowing in my last blog post? I almost wish I did for the sake of the narrative. But instead, my head was drumming with a persistent ache, and my wool sweater under my winter coat threatened the potential for heat exhaustion as I stood in misery under the bus’s heater. 

All I really wanted, in that moment, was to throw a temper tantrum. I wanted to scream like kids do in the grocery store, kicking and protesting the responsibilities of life and the confines of society. I don’t want to go to work! I don’t want to go to the grocery store after work! I don’t want to cook myself dinner after I go to the grocery store! Gah!

By the grace of self-regulation, I instead opted to stare out the window while listening to what was most likely “Stairway to Heaven,” mulling in regret over my decision to commute into the office. After a long while, which was probably halfway through “Stairway to Heaven,” I glanced down at my feet, where a piece of trash caught my eye. A crinkled white wrapper with three words written in red: “Mint to be.” I smiled. I pulled out my phone to take a picture, because god knows this photo will land in some angsty photo dump on my Instagram eventually, and smiled again. It was a gift, a reminder that instead of fretting over my every single life decision, like whether or not I commute into the office that day, perhaps I can just trust. As someone who is constantly worried about making the wrong decision, that is a persistent challenge for me. But I’m working on it: trusting myself, and trusting that how my life is unfolding is okay.

I’d like to share an example of this personal effort put to work. 

I had a blue January, living alone in my one-bedroom apartment and feeling nostalgic for the sense of community I cherished back in college. I was also decidedly single, exhausted from going on one-too-many Hinge dates and grappling with a people-pleasing problem that resulted in me never feeling happy in past situationships. The solution, I figured, was to make two purchases: a sourdough starter and a cat. I figured if I can’t feel happy as a 23-year-old, perhaps I can feel happy as a faux 63-year-old. 

My friends jokingly asked if they should be worried. I laughed with them, laughing at myself.

So, I baked my sourdough bread, a miraculous success (as all of my previous bread-baking efforts resulted in me breaking down and crying), and adopted a two-year-old black cat named Winnie. I was living my dream, doing yoga with my cat while my bread proofed on the kitchen counter. This is all I ever wanted! My life is fulfilled! 

I felt proud of this new trajectory. My friends came over for dinner, and I sliced the sourdough as we sipped on white wine, all of us feeling like little adults living our best city lives. I was finding it easier to trust, trusting that this is all meant to be. 

Flash forward to a few weeks later, and I’m back on the shuttle bus to work. The headache is gone, and although I’m once again feeling overheated, I push past my stubbornness this time and unzip my jacket. And step away from the heater.

When I return from work, my cat greets me with incessant meowing, a pattern I had begun noticing the days I work in the office. I pet her, I talk to her, I meow back at her (I see those raised eyebrows), I play a “Calming Cat Music” Spotify playlist, I try everything, and yet she continues to meow. She scratches at the door when I use the bathroom, she stares at me while I eat my dinner as she ignores her full food bowl steps away. 

Finally, I realized, she's lonely. How ironic, that I adopted her to cure my loneliness and instead spread it to her.

So, I reacted as any 23-year-old would. I called my mom, and I cried. 

After a productive conversation with the most patient woman I will ever know, I considered my options. I was trying to be pragmatic, but I was also reeling in frustration, guilt, and embarrassment. This is not how this was supposed to unfold! What will I tell my friends? Hours later, I tossed and turned at four in the morning as the gremlin in my head offered a host of existential questions: am I incapable of being responsible for anything other than myself? If I can’t take care of a cat, how will I ever be a mom?! 

With bleary, bloodshot eyes the next morning, I brushed my teeth as my cat delivered her morning gospel of never-ending meows. I pet her, filled her food bowl, and texted her old foster family. I explained the situation and asked if they’d be interested in fostering her again. Within minutes, I received a warm text thanking me for reaching out and confirming they’d love to have her again. So that is that, I thought, looking down to meet her wide yellow eyes. 

A few days later, I knelt down to Winnie, whispered that I loved her, and handed her back to her foster family. 

I am still frustrated, guilt-ridden, and embarrassed. I miss her. But I am also relieved. I know I wasn’t able to give her the attention she needed, and I know she’s in a safe and loving home. I gave it my best, and it wasn’t enough. And the hard part is: it’s okay. 

I’m choosing to trust. I’m choosing to believe that the message on a piece of trash on the bus means something. I'm moving onward, with teeth, love, and mints.