Midnight revelations

Margaret mentioned something about proper chopstick technique during pottery class yesterday, and it’s been bugging me ever since. Not the pottery part—the fact that she casually demonstrated how to hold them while we were cleaning up, and I realized I’ve been gripping mine like I’m trying to stab something to death for the past three decades.

Midnight revelations

So here I am at 4 AM, takeout containers spread across our kitchen counter, watching YouTube tutorials and dropping more rice than I’m actually eating. Jake’s asleep, blissfully unaware that his girlfriend is having an existential crisis over basic utensil usage. The tutorial makes it look so simple—’rest the bottom chopstick in the web of your hand, pivot the top one like a pencil’—but my fingers apparently missed that memo.

The evidence of my failures

I’ve made it through nursing school, mastered pottery techniques, can deadlift my body weight, but chopsticks? Chopsticks are my nemesis. At this rate, I’ll be requesting forks at every Asian restaurant until I’m 80. Margaret’s going to ask me about it next week, and I refuse to admit defeat to a 69-year-old woman who probably learned this skill before I was born.