Bravery and Wisdom

Let me tell you a story about a time when I was brave, but not wise.

First, a little context. My dad’s house has two living rooms; there’s the one off the kitchen where everybody usually hangs out and none of the furniture really matters all that much, and then there’s the nice living room. The nice living room has comfy couches and throw pillows, lots of natural lighting, and the fish tank is in there; it’s my favourite spot in the whole house. The nice living room is primarily for company, certainly not for food or drink of any kind - it’s kind of an unwritten rule, an unwritten rule that I am very aware of, but on this particular day, I was feeling a little rebellious…

Now, on with the story - let’s set the scene. I’m visiting my dad and family for the weekend; it’s Saturday morning, everyone else has gone to church, and I’ve got a cup of coffee and the house to myself.

Standing there in the kitchen, mug in hand, I think to myself, “I’m an adult and I’m going to have my coffee wherever I want! Also, nobody’s home to tell me not to, so here goes!”

I grab a coaster for my mug - I can’t leave any evidence I had coffee in here, I’m not that brave. As I put my coffee down on the end table beside the couch I say to myself, “Sahara, you will literally be killed if you spill coffee on this couch, so keep it together!”

Now, I should mention the fact that a solid 60% of the time, I spill my morning coffee in some way, shape, or form. I told you this was a story about a time when I was brave, but not wise.

I settle in on the couch with my back against a throw pillow, feet up, chillin’ out, maxin’, relaxin’ all cool. I reach back over my shoulder to grab my mug. So far, so good. As I bring the mug up and around over my shoulder, my hand catches the corner of the throw pillow and sends a shockwave through me and into the mug creating a sloshing effect. A wave of hot coffee splashes out of the mug and onto my sleeve.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

A couple of drops of coffee run off my sleeve and onto the couch faster than I can get up. I put the mug back down on the coaster and realize there’s even more coffee spilled closer to the arm of the couch from the initial splash.

FUCK!

I run to the kitchen, cursing myself all the way, and grab a damp cloth so I can try to minimize the damage. Is there a five-second rule for this kind of situation? I rush back to the nice living room and dab at the spill, praying that I’ve been quick enough to salvage the couch. It’s hard to tell if my triage worked because now there’s a big damp spot where the coffee was. All I can do now is wait for it to dry.

I carefully pick up my mug and take it back to the kitchen. What the hell was I thinking?

I pace around the house, going back to check on the couch every 30 seconds - you know, just in case it dried since the last time I looked. What would possess me to think I could handle drinking coffee in the nice living room?

Fast forward to the next morning: the damp spots are completely dry, and there’s no trace of coffee on the couch.

On that particular day, I learned an important lesson: just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should.