Nothing seems to sum all this up better than lemons.
Imagine you want to make some orange juice. Go to the bowl, grab some oranges and make orange juice.
Now imagine every time you go to that bowl, the orange bowl, that special bowl that is on everyone’s counter, and every time you go to that bowl you find lemons. Maybe once in a great while you find a orange or two and you get to make orange juice, sometimes you find oranges but they’re rotten or you drop the glass before you’re almost ready to drink, but most of the time you just find lemons.
Oh, sure you can make some lemonade. Of course it takes more lemons because they’re small and it takes sugar because lemons are bitter and you have to get the sugar just right or the lemonade won’t taste right and then it’s just waste of everything. Perhaps your neighbor really appreciates that you made lemonade because she’s had it up to here with orange juice, she has more orange juice than she knows what to do with. So you serve her up some of your lemonade while she waxes on about all the great things you can do with those lemons and all the while you’re hating lemonade all the more because all you want is a simple glass of orange juice.
I’m a lemon. I’m not a fruit, I’m the other kind of lemon: “a person or thing that proves to be defective, imperfect or unsatisfactory; a dud.” The dictionary doesn’t hold punches. Thanks dictionary.
I’m a lemon who has been handed a big pile of lemons who makes lemonade for other people so they can further appreciate their orange juice.
It’s Infertility Awareness Week and I’m aware that I’m surrounded by lemons.