Hell is having a huge jar of grapefruit (10 whole grapefruits! it says on the sticker, all neatly segmented and lightly sweetened, ready to be enjoyed) and hands too small to grasp the lid well enough to open it.
I don’t own one of those handy flexible rubber circles that everyone had in their kitchen in the 80s, printed with the name of some insurance company or local market, to assist in grasping the lid and wrenching it off.
I whacked it with a knife. I pulled the sleeve of my hoodie over my hand and hoped for the best, and failed. My pretty dishtowel was no help at all, and simply slipped off the lid and laughed at me, I swear.
My last resort is the man of the house, possessed of giant hands, strong enough to hold me up in the air with one arm; I go to him reluctantly, always, loath to admit my weakness. Were he here, I’d hand him the jar without a word, offer a pout as explanation, thank him with a kiss, and begin to enjoy at least five of those whole grapefruits posthaste. Sadly, he’s off doing musician things, and is useless to me at the moment.
Thank goodness I had a backup fruit to save me from suffering, but still. I had to cut it myself, remove the fruit from the rind, add my own sugar, and settle for one measly fruit when I’m starving out here.
Would that every day were fraught with such trivial woes, and that I should get enough sleep to stop writing in archaic English and musing on grapefruits.