Today, I hired myself some movers for a special assignment. When the two men arrived at my apartment, pumped for heavy lifting, I informed them of their task.
“See that paradigm over there?” I said, pointing toward the living room. “It’s been there forever and, frankly, I’m sick to death of looking at it. Would you please move it someplace else?”
“Uh...” the marginally more handsome of the movers ventured. “So where do you want it, lady?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t particularly care,” I replied, more brusquely than I had intended. “Just put it somewhere else!”
Directed thus, the movers picked up the paradigm, groaning with effort, and carried it into the kitchen.
“Uh, is this good?” the less handsome one inquired, wincing slightly.
“Yes,” I said. “That will do just fine.” Instantly, the paradigm dropped to the floor with a loud thud, permanently scuffing the linoleum. Their work done, the men scratched themselves and ambled away.
Inspecting the shifted paradigm, I felt a palpable sense of relief. Nothing else in the apartment had changed, and yet, its contents looked suddenly different. The kitchen table seemed less cluttered, the sofa less worn, the sink less full. In fact, the whole apartment appeared brighter, as though someone had washed all of its windows without my noticing.
“Maybe,” I thought to myself, “it’s okay to hope for things again?”
Smiling, I went to get myself a beer, whereupon I discovered that the paradigm was blocking the refrigerator door. Undeterred, I poured myself a glass of water and started a things-to-do list.