The Cup

Most people may call it collecting clutter. I’m sentimental, I call it saving things with character.

Everyone does it at some point, right? Most of the time it’s a t-shirt, maybe your old college sweatpants, sometimes it’s underwear. Old and beat up, but it’s yours. It’s comfortable around the seams and the cotton is worn down just so. Holes? There may be a few. But don’t even think about throwing them away. They’re irreplaceable.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not to the point where I need to come out on A&E’s Hoarders or anything like that, but it’s a quirk. I’ve got a few things here and there. But I guess some people draw the line at my plastic cup. It can get a couple of eyerolls over here in the Guat household. I’ve even uncovered and stopped schemes of getting rid of it.

The Cup

Now, normally a plastic cup wouldn’t get a second look. I’m more of tall glass kind of person. But for some reason this tall plastic blue 32 ounce LEGOLAND cup seemed to make its way next to my dinner, lunch, and breakfast plate every day. If I had a fancy La-Z-Boy couch with cup holders, it would’ve probably made it there too. It doesn’t have sentimental value, and it wasn’t expensive. But there’s a certain feel to it. Plus, it being 32 ounces and all, helps keep my daily quota on hydrating myself. I’d become possessive over it, like your special corner on the couch. You don’t like anyone’s butt imprint on that cushion, but yours. It’s a custom fit. Same thing, I don’t like anyone drinking from my cup. I know it gets washed and Dawn dishwashing soap is pretty powerful stuff, it comes in anti-bacterial orange, but it’s my cup. I’m weird that way.

But then the incident happened. And I guess most people would have thrown it away and gotten another one. I mean it’s not like we don’t have dozens of cups and pilsner glasses in the cabinets over here. But I kept it. I’d become a little attached.

In truth I don’t know how it happened. I was probably distracted by some sort of toddler-crisis-Ritz-cracker shortage or something when I left it unattended on the counter. I honestly didn’t think I was that absent-minded, but apparently I am. I mean I know that heat and plastic don’t mix. I’m aware, I took chemistry in high school and I’ve got common sense. But regardless of these factors, the cup became victim to the got-too-close-to-the-frying-pan syndrome. Upon impact it sort of caved in on the side and the plastic sticker got all crunchy. It’s all puckered up on one side. I don’t know if it technically holds 32 ounces anymore, but it’s still my cup.

Most of the time my mom, dude, sister, aunts and cousins look puzzled as they see me drinking from it. What’s the deal? It’s burned up, beat up, and injured. I mean I can probably get a similar one from the 99 cent store or the CVS. I give them all the same answer. It kind of reminds me of me. I’m a little beat up and sometimes I may walk with a limp because my knee acts up when it’s cold, and I probably need to take more vitamins. I’m a little sideways too, but I’m still good. I have a purpose. So the cup stays.

 

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