I wanted someone else to decide what to do with the ripe bananas

Dear Delyara, Bake them, freeze them, ignore them, throw them away, turn them into a moral test of my housekeeping, apparently. The bananas sat there on the counter all day getting browner and somehow more emotionally loud. By evening I genuinely felt irritated every time I looked at them, not because bananas are offensive, but because they represented one more tiny domestic decision no one else was going to notice first or care about deeply enough to resolve. I know this sounds absurd. I also know many women will understand it immediately. Some days the problem is not the banana. It’s the fact that life keeps asking one more thing from the same tired mind.