Damson Gin cocktail at Mothers Ruin Gin Palace

I got a coffee before work this morning, my little reward for getting out of bed on a Monday morning. As I sat down at my desk I took the first sip and gah, it was burnt. Being a Monday morning I responded in a totally calm and measured way “for fucks sake this bastard coffee is burnt to all hell”. Reasonable reaction right?

I can’t help but feel that with tragedy after tragedy hitting the news, and the inevitable quagmire of offended outrage/finger pointing/tactless jokes on social media that my burnt coffee could quite easily be defined as a first world problem.

First world problem: n informal
1. Rebecca buying a coffee that tasted a little burned
2. Rebecca feeling so affronted by the burned coffee she wrote a blog post about it

Do the little tragedies have a place any more? With so much utter shit in the world should we all just shut the hell up? I mean, here is my list of little tragedies from over the weekend:

  • Spilled my cocktail that was served in a martini glass (the worst type of glass) and had a sticky hand for an hour
  • Missed my train by moments and had to wait for 17 minutes for the next one
  • I am still getting over a cold that I had three weeks ago
  • My attempt at winged eyeliner went haywire and I didn’t have time to try again
  • Tripped over a paving stone in front of a pub pavement full of people
  • Its the end of June and the weather still looks like March
  • Went out early Saturday morning looking like hell and ran into three people I know

All tiny insignificant problems, but all ones that caused a torrent of swearwords to pin ball inside my brain. I know what is happening in the news, I know that lives are being destroyed and prejudice and hate seem to be winning…so why am I just not letting my micro-tragedies go? Why do they still piss me of and make me want to self sooth with chocolate and tea? Worse than trying to put them behind me, my brain seems to relish these silly little moments – enjoying the grumbling and the forceful fucks that escape my lips.

My brain seems to need these little tragedies. I can understand the cause, the effect  and can easily overcome with a little moan with friends. The big stuff is insurmountable, I don’t have a hope in rationalising American gun laws, toxic UK politics or the planes that keep falling out of the sky. To try is to fall into a pit of horrible opinions, thoughts and prayers. So instead I call my burnt coffee a bastard.

I overreact to my stupid first world problem because I know, at least with such a small insignificant issue, it will get better.