Spoiled

Spoiled. That's me. My dishwasher died yesterday, a slow lingering death marked by stops and starts, screwdrivers and wrenches, hope and defeat. With a sink full of dirty dishes requiring attention, I headed for Walmart to get supplies for hand washing, a drying rack and drainer, preparing to once again, after a spoiled rotten life of automatic dishwashing for the past 37 years. I was feeling just a little sorry for myself, wondering how I would cope with this discomfort.
Then this evening my hands were in the warm soapy water surrounded by dirty dishes when I experienced a kind of revelation. This was not half bad. The warm water on my cold hands felt really good. It came to me that dishwashing is a finite task with a beginning and end, a household chore, unlike some others, that I can check off as completed at some point, giving a satisfying sense of accomplishment. At the moment that I am handwashing dishes, probably millions of people in all kinds of settings are doing the same thing. It is a time to think about this shared task.
I realize that I am the first generation of women with automatic dishwashers. My mother and all the generations preceding never had such an appliance. In the world today what percentage of the world's people have any kind of modern appliance or, for that matter, clean running water? Hot water that doesn't have to be carried long distances by hand? How lucky I am! A broken dishwasher is a blessing, reminding me what a lucky life I have. Sometimes I need these reminders. Otherwise I remain Spoiled.