Summer Blue Soup
Today, I made soup. There’s nothing particularly special about making soup—I've been having it every day for the past few months. But today, I made a soup. It was one of those meals I threw together for something simple and nutritious to take to work. The day started great. I got enough sleep last night, woke up early enough to cook, practice gua sha, work out, and even take some time to relax. The day felt too perfect to waste, so I impulsively decided to call in to work.
Then, I tasted that soup and instantly knew I had made the right decision. For something so simple—shrimp, spinach, carrots, and celery in a soy sauce and apple cider vinegar broth—it turned out to be surprisingly perfect. It was just what I needed today.
Yet, why do I feel blue? Because the soup is so good. Because it is so profoundly nostalgic, which is confusing considering I hated soup growing up. I can't grasp how something I once refused to eat could now evoke such poignant feelings of nostalgia.
And there’s another layer to my melancholy. Today was such a good day, yet I called out of work, knowing it might cast a shadow over future days. The spontaneity felt right in the moment, but there's a part of me that worries about the consequences. Will calling in sick today cause stress tomorrow? Will staying home to relish this perfect day end up making my week more difficult?
The duality of the situation weighs heavily on me. On one hand, I thoroughly enjoyed my morning and afternoon—every sip of that unexpectedly delicious soup, every moment of my workout, every second spent in peaceful relaxation. On the other hand, I am acutely aware that my decision to forgo work might backfire, disrupting the delicate balance of productivity and peace I've been striving to maintain.
For now, I’ll embrace the bittersweet nostalgia and savor every spoonful, even if it brings a mix of joy and unease. Today was too good to waste, and perhaps that, in itself, is enough.
