we waste time with the hobgoblins

{photo from triborodesign}

There comes a time in everyones life (and I am sure I will come to this place in time over and over, visiting like an old friend, an old friend who has her own spot at the neighborhood cafe... see that? That item on the menu? The Kendra? Nance back there named it after me because I came here so often and refused to order anything else [here is where I give you my "I should be looking sheepish, but really I'm so proud" smile and you ask me if I recommend it - to which I respond, with feigned offense, "Are you kidding? Of course I do! It calls my name! - Literally!" and after my self-gratifying chuckle at my own bad joke, I will drop my voice to a whisper and surreptitiously say "But sometimes, when I'm feeling adventurous, I order it with the blue cheese instead of the feta.")]) when she or he realizes that some battles are just not worth fighting. 


Today, I wanted four different kinds of cheese. All at once. In equally large quantity. 
Instead of listing off the reasons I knew I would regret this later and attempting to satiate my craving with something slightly less caloric but vastly less delicious,
I had four different kinds of cheese. All at once. In equally large quantity. 


Tonight, I didn't want to do the dishes (especially the dishes I myself didn't dirty).
Instead of listing off the reasons why it was totally not my responsibility to clean such kitchenware,
I washed all the dishes. And gave some extra love to the dishes I myself didn't dirty (...and sent some extra love to the one who dirtied them).


Because sometimes - not always - but sometimes, the pre-wartime machination ("to fight" or "not to fight,") is more of a hobgoblin than the battle itself.