Yesterday, I might have agreed that false grit is meekminded grit, the kind of insubstantial substance that's hardly worth the salt I throw over my shoulder whenever onions are peeled. Today, I might see eye to eye with the idea that it's all in how the onion's layers are inhaled, and whose eyes are being peppered with the flecks that fly from the reaming and honing of the daily grind.
Tomorrow, I will certainly agree that wishywashitude is no better than sitting on the fence where splinters are concerned, even as I avert my eyes from the blind concern that landed me in hot water, then cold, then lukewarm, followed by immersion in the tank of deprivation I sensed beforehand, when saline was for sniffing.
The day after tomorrow, I may find myself wandering among the gangplanks of my mind, wondering what happened to the spare GPS batteries I so thoughtfully planned to stow below, yet aboveboard, where they might survive even the grittiest circling of snarky sharks and their landlubbing kin.
Who knows what yesterday might bring.