When my sister got a part time job in the Biology lab in her first year of college, she brought home literal frog legs which my mother cooked up for our dinner. You must understand that Mother grew up in the Great Depression. Waste not, want not. She could make a pot of soup out of six peas and a chicken wing. (Yes, they taste like chicken, as I remember).
But what is the “frog” to which I refer in this post?
This morning I woke up in a dark swamp of confusion with several pesky “frogs” croaking in my ear. “Get that stubborn prescription issue straightened out. Finalize those travel plans. Cancel your AMC subscription. Master 2 factor notification on your IRA account. Deal with the malfunctioning smoke alarm that woke you up again, chirping joyfully at 3 AM.”
I’m reminded of my near fatal tumble as a child into a real swamp, the murk closing in over my head as I fell under.
These are frogs I must eat. I’m perseverating, going in circles. What to do? Pray. Someone else is smarter than I. List those frogs and pick one up. Start with the smallest. Or the biggest, some say. One frog at a time. If you must be on hold on the phone, waiting for a live human, deal with a smaller frog in the meantime. File your nails or balance the checkbook.
Then chew. Persevere and swallow. There! Doesn’t that feel better? You can do this! One less frog to go
Burp.
Ribit.
(If curious about the swamp tumble of yesteryear, go to my website (rosek.net), “The Aardvark Speaks”, and click “Family” on the menu. Look for “Angels at the Swamp”.)