John Henry vs. Toy Story

This morning, I was in the middle of my usual primping ritual before work. I turned on my curling iron, went down stairs to brush my teeth and wash my face (due to the fact that we are still sans an upstairs bathroom) and went back upstairs to curl my hair. The cord to the curling iron kept getting caught under my dresser. After fixing the cord the first few times, it continued to get tangled and, I swear that dang cord was doing it on purpose. I started getting frustrated . . . maybe even grunted a little bit . . . and tried to whip it out from under the dresser. In that moment, I had a John Henry epiphany.

For those of you who don't know, John Henry is a fictional character (although there are some who believe he actually lived) who tried to outwork the steam-powered hammer during the railroad boom but ultimately fails and dies trying. In case you're worried, I did not die while I was curling my hair, but I was fighting a (wo)man vs. machine battle and when I get super frustrated, I am concerned that the machine is winning.

Do you ever have those days when you feel like "stuff" is against you? I swear, it feels like either your appendages cannot function properly or these inanimate objects are all out to get you. Maybe your towel keeps falling off the hook you're trying to place it on. Maybe your shirt is all rolled up and trying to attack you while you're putting it on. (I have that problem with sports bras. I know those things are supposed to keep the girls in line, but I am telling you, it's a battle every time I put one on.) These John Henry moments give us the opportunity to rise above the machine, but sometimes it is so strenuous.

When I was young, I was one of those kids who wondered if my toys came alive when I left the room. There was just no way that Barbie's face could be that smiley all the time. I knew she was up to something. After watching Toy Story 3 the other night, it is a fun and somewhat frightening thought that sometimes still enters my mind. Maybe our things really are alive. Maybe my curling iron didn't appreciate being chucked into my dark and lonely closet while I was tidying up. Maybe my sports bra doesn't appreciate the swoobs and being shoved in my gym bag after having endured an intense workout. Maybe these little attacks are a form of retaliation.

Then again, I could just have a mental problem compounded with a lack of fine motor skills . . . .