Yesterday, I was having a really off kind of day.

It just felt a bit off balance, like I was stumbling my way from one activity to the next.

Nothing felt fluid and I think it’s because I may have swallowed too much fluid at my swim work-out earlier in the day.

If my day was divided as Dr. Phil would have wanted, into five defining moments, the most important would have been this.

I opened the fridge to find the Parmesan to sprinkle over the girl’s pasta. (I was making “dinner” to be snorted and smeared around the van en route to their swim practice after school.)

I must have taken the Parmesan out of the fridge and set it next to the three thermoses on the counter while in some sort of deep trance.

I then packed three, plastic forks.

Time lapse photography would now depict an obsessed lady who was about to go bat-crap crazy because I opened the fridge about 10 seconds later and started searching for the Parmesan. The Parmesan I had already found and set on the counter.

This almost aggressive search for the item I had as recently as 10 seconds earlier had in my hands was obviously a cry for help. A symptom of some other, more serious problem.

I spent about ten minutes moving things around the fridge to cover yogurt spills and half-ignore the liquid oozing from the coriander in the vegetable crisper I’d been half-ignoring for more days than I care to admit.

I even paid careful attention to the spot on the top shelf where the Parmesan almost always lived. Despite the space being bare, the area around it had an almost circular vibe, like the foods were waiting until I was done addressing the pasta with their friend so they could give it a big, group hug upon its return.

I should have known something was off a lot sooner than I did.

For starters, the Parmesan is almost always in the spot between the relish and the t.v. remote.

Off day.