Shitty Tempura is the Worst Thing in My Life Right Now
and it’s a beautiful thing
I had just moved across the country to San Francisco for work. I only knew a handful of people, a few places to eat, and a couple of things to do. See, my apartment is a bit far from most of the action, which is nice sometimes, but other times it’s frustrating.
I was hungry.
I felt weird, too. Maybe some stress had bottled up in me. I was nervous for my new job, nervous of being so far away from home, nervous that I wouldn’t do well here. That wasn’t important, though. I just wanted some damn tempura.
Thirty minutes spent on Seamless lead to nothing. GrubHub and Eat24 were no better. I stared at $25 minimums, 2-star ratings, and plenty of delicious-looking food just out of reach. Apparently one of the most technologically evolved cities in the world can’t get food delivery right. Back home I had this wonderful Japanese place just down the street from my school, and their tempura always lifted my spirits.
So, I ventured out and went for a short walk to a nearby sushi restaurant. It was expensive, and the ratings weren’t very good, but whatever, I wanted to get out of my room. Forty-five minutes and handful of awkward interactions later, I was back in my apartment with a $18.50 bento box.
Boy oh boy was it awful.
It wasn’t just bad, it was offensive. The greasy tempura was sitting there, staring back at me, mocking me. The chicken was so dry and flavorless, and the salad tasted like it came out of a can — if salads came out of cans, which they don’t, but if they did it wouldn’t be as fucking terrible as this salad. I was so frustrated, and pretty upset by the whole thing: almost $20 down the drain, my stomach still growling. I sat there with my laptop open, wondering what the hell I was going to do. Would I be hungry all the time here? Would I panic every time I messed up dinner plans? But, then it hit me.
At that moment, shitty tempura was the worst thing in my life.
I had a moment of clarity. I realized the young man irrationally swearing at a box of tasteless japanese food must have it really, really good. If I can spend my time worrying about things like “good tempura,” then I must have the other bases covered — and you know what, I guess I did. Here I was, in an awesome apartment, working a job I loved in a city I adored. I didn’t sweat between paychecks, and my health was a-okay.
Since then, I’ve often found myself pausing during moments of intense frustration, thinking “Hey, my bad headache is the worst thing in my life right now.” When you phrase it like that, you realize you sound like a complete maniac, and you stop acting like a complete maniac.
See, I don’t have actual problems, I have first world problems. Once I realized that every problem in my life wasn’t as bad as this horrible excuse for tempura in front of me, I felt pretty great, and it’s proven to be a useful exercise for any other “problems” I come in contact with.
That tempura was so bad that it changed my life.
