This too shall glass

Forgive me if I am a bit reserved and decide to sit off to the side with a flimsy paper plate on my lap, barely touching the Swedish meatballs that I spooned onto it earlier in the day in a brief yet significant lapse into something akin to insanity. Forgive me if I just sort of prod them with my plastic fork (does Evelyn save these to reuse, or do we just toss them with our paper plates?) absent-mindedly and wonder how they got there in the first place, because I haven’t eaten meat in 24 years and if I were going to all of a sudden start eating meat again, on some sort of madcap whim, it certainly wouldn’t be goyishe Swedish meatballs, no.
Forgive me also for crashing this party, whatever the occasion and wherever it is. How did I even get here to this part of New Jersey I never knew existed? Is it true I really took a PATH train and you picked me up in your new Toyota Camry that’s not new new (it’s a 1999 model) but to you it’s new and that’s all that counts? (By the way, who are you?) I’m just glad I happened to have a foil-covered pan of kugel in my purse so I didn’t arrive empty-handed. And I’m glad everyone seems to be enjoying it, even if they’re all mispronouncing “kugel” and have no idea what it is.
You see, I’m just a bit off today. For today is the day I replaced the glass that met its untimely demise last week. Today is bittersweet. Today I hand-picked a replacement — my doctor and mother urge me not to think of it as a replacement, though, but as a unique entity with an identity all its own — from among those arranged in a precarious display at Pier 1. Today I inspected as many glasses of its kind that I possibly could without jeopardizing the integrity of the setup. That was a risk I wasn’t ready to take. Not so soon. Not so soon.
The glasses are “mouthblown” (any other day I would be compelled to wink at the audience like Mr. Roper upon mentioning this term, but today I am not feeling so capricious, and I hope you understand, and I know you do, because you’re like that), so there were variations in the red swirls. Variations in color, density, texture, and form. Although a less sensitive person would say, “Oh, they’re all the same … just pick one and let’s get out of here and go to Loehmann’s already!”, I took my time and selected the one glass that resembled the dead glass the most.
The glass is home now. It is on the counter. I removed it from its protective paper wrapping and set it there hours ago. I have not yet removed its price tag or washed it. It has not met the other glasses in the cabinet. I most certainly have not used it. I have not gone so far as to wrap it in a warm blanket and lie it next to a ticking clock inside a wicker basket so it feels like it’s next to its mama. I’m not, after all, off my rocker.
I am, however, aware that it will be quite some time before I am able to use this glass without remembering all the good times I shared with its predecessor. I don’t know how long it will be before I am able to drink from this glass without saying to whomever is witnessing it, “This is the glass I bought to replace the other one that I killed that time when I was young and impatient,” but eventually that day will come. It will come.