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Staggering Serendipities

The day commenced with normalcy expected. As I first became conscious again, sheltered under the yielding covers of my bed, I began my routine with its permanent first step: visualizing my day not as how I wanted it to be, but as how it would be. Sometimes during the day, I caught myself becoming swept up in quixotic dreams and impracticable imaginings, but this part of my day seemed to ground me a bit, if not drain me of hope.

That early morning as I opened my eyes in the dark of my house, I began immediately thinking about the day ahead of me. What I would have to do. When I would have to do it. The usual sacrifices, the possible rewards. My body heaved slightly and steadily with each concentrated breath I took as I pondered every detail of the imminent 24 hours. The fact that I could review a day that had not even happened yet made most people deem me predictable, but I always corrected them with one of my favorite adjectives: stable.

After this exercise was complete, the next part of my morning routine was inaugurated. I would fling on my robe, walk to the kitchen, eat my breakfast while watching the morning news, take a shower, get dressed, and hurry over to Mr. Burns' manor to go through my morning routine one more time with him.

Visualizing this that day, I sighed, wondering if my life truly had lost the definition of living. I supposed it didn't really matter. As long as you're happy with the homogeny of your life, you are living, I told myself consolingly. But are you happy with the homogeny of your life? I then asked myself.

As I poured myself some Krusty O's and milk, I contemplated my question. I looked at my cereal first. Was I happy with this part of my routine? I wondered. While that charismatic Sideshow Mel caught my eye from time to time, I didn't even like that imbecile Krusty the Clown and yet I ate his cereal day after day? Why was that? I looked to my TV screen, where Kent Brockman was prattling on about some carnival that would be in Springfield in the next couple days or so. Was this really the frivolous information I wanted to be nourishing my mind with in the morning?

Before my mind could even wonder about my contentment concerning the rest of my life, the doorbell suddenly rang, interrupting my destructive musings. I placed my cereal bowl on the counter and ambled tiredly to the door, turning to my left to check the time. 6:34. Who would be here at 6:34 in the morning? I wondered slightly.

I opened the door to see a young boy, perhaps 8-years-old or so, clad in a dull chocolate uniform, his small arms carrying the weight of several boxes of cookies. He looked up at me with massive eyes under just as massive, round glasses. "Good morning, sir," he spoke softly. "I'm sorry to bother you at this early hour, but I was wondering if you might be interested in buying some cookies."

The whole scene put me ill at ease for some reason, and usually, I would decline such an offer, but something impelled me to hear the boy out. "Don't Girl Scouts usually sell cookies?" I asked, I suppose a bit inappropriately, but hell, I was curious.

The boy looked down and tittered timidly. "Yeah, well, I just moved here and the school insisted I get involved with one of their programs, so I joined the Poetry Club and well, I suppose a bit predictably, we are under-funded, and selling cookies was the almost unanimous choice for a fundraiser." He laughed and added, "There are more girls in the club, also a bit a predictably."

I smiled. This boy seemed genuine, although there was still something that set me off about him. "Well, I usually don't do this, but…sure, I'll take a box of cookies. What kinds are you offering?"

"Oh, thank you, sir!" exclaimed the boy. "We have many choices: mint thins, peanut butter, oatmeal raisin…"

"Oatmeal raisin, please," I decided, reaching for my wallet.

"That will be $3.00, please. And might I say, excellent choice, sir. Oatmeal raisin are my favorite too, and these oatmeal raisin cookies are to die for, although I may be biased," he said, chuckling.

"Well, I'm excited to try them," I said, handing the boy my money in exchange for my box. "Thank you."

"No, thank you, sir," the boy said readily. "It was great doing business with you, and I hope you enjoy your cookies."

"I will. Goodbye, and good luck," I offered, taking my cookies and myself inside my house. I watched the boy for a moment as he walked merrily down my steps and to the next house. There was something about him…those gargantuan eyes…that warm but professional persona. He reminded me of someone.

And then it hit me. He reminded me of me.

And although this was merely a passing thought, I suddenly felt as if my world, my routine, and my life had been completely turned upside down.