I ate an orange for breakfast

When I sat down at the table this morning, I was still trying to stay quiet so my grandma wouldn't notice I was out there starting breakfast.  I had gotten just the right amount of food that I wanted.  To no avail.  Do you want me to cut an orange for you?  Do you want me to warm up some bread?  Do you want a yogurt?  Do you want an apple?  In spite of repeating No several times--twice for the apple--I still ended up with bread and chicken spread next to me on the table.  And an apple.  Ok, thanks, grandma.

I was already moody that morning and it wasn't even nine o'clock.  The days have been busy, at least in my mind.  Decisions wear me out.  I have been trying to be a better person these days, too.  It's rough.

I sliced up my orange.  I ate it, piece by piece, until only canoe-shaped peels were left on the plate.  I ate my honey bunches of oats--two bowls.  I ate my ten almonds.  I ate my strawberry yogurt.  And I looked out the window.  The sky was blue.  The trees were bright and summery green.  Even the neighbor's new grass was poking up past the hay he had put down the other day.  My damp hair was cool on my neck.  My fuzzy slippers were comfy.  The kitchen was quiet.

I kept looking out the window.  And for some reason, this morning I realized something that, for the first time in a long time, kept coming to mind all day:

I had confused ease for happiness all my life.