|Private Disasters: sometimes you take the lesser of two Weevils
||[Oct. 22nd, 2010|12:05 pm]
So, leading up to the reunion, I have to admit I had a fair amount of anxiety about something RUINING it. Not the reunion, exactly -- more like, okay, I've finally scheduled a weekend that's all about ME, so surely something will happen to ruin it. I would get sick, the Captain would have some life-threatening emergency, a hole in the earth would open up and swallow my hometown...|
Go ahead, laugh. C'mon, you KNOW I will always think of the worst thing that could happen, that I LIVE in the half-empty glass. Why, before my current job, I would always schedule one day in December, devoted to baking cookies. I'd do many of the doughs ahead of time, assemble a vast array of decorations and cutters and there would be that one shining EMPTY day on the calendar that would be MINE, all MINE.
And four years in a row, something happened that cause me to have to work or have other obligations that day. First, a friend's mother was deathly ill, could I cover the friend's store that day. Then a friend got married that day. Then husband at the time had a medical emergency, so I spent the special day in the emergency room. Then the friend with a sick mother and a store...her mom died and could I cover the store for her. DIED. And, of course, I did, but in between there was definitely an hour of whirling myself around the house and flouncing upstairs, dramatically throwing myself on the bed, sobbing "I just want to bake some F-ing cookies, why is that so F-ing hard?"
Which is fairly ludicrous, since I bake all of these really wonderful cookies and bring them up to my family who then proceed to not eat them because: they're so fattening, they have so many cookies made by STRANGERS on hand, they bought five cakes for seven people for dessert, etc. Plus, repeated admonitions to not go to so much trouble, try to relax more, don't bother, it's too much work, etc.
Which finally came to a head last year when I wound up near screaming at my mother: "I make them because they make me HAPPY! Don't you want me to be HAPPY? Eat the damn COOKIE and make me HAPPY!"
Not one of my finer moments. But sometimes I'm Miss Daisy and I'm just driven there.
So really, is it any wonder that I was fearing last minute interruptions of my first chance to do something for JUST ME, in months and months and I'd say years, but the slight chance that is actually true is making me a little weepy and self-pitying, so I'll leave it at months, but seriously, so many things could go wrong.
As it is, all the fuss over the spandex and hiding the squatters on my hip bones should have guaranteed a big giant pimple, no?
But there I was, putting on my make-up, in the last steps of leaving for the reunion, sinkholes and zits never having materialized, when the folding louvered doors that hide the shower in my parent's bathroom rolled outwards and open again.
See, my mom thought that would be a very cool idea. And it is, except that the doors were installed by Larry, Darryl and Darryl (I'll wait while the youngsters Google) so, the doors only lived on their track for a short while and for the past several years, in order to get them to stay closed, you have to push them together...just...right. And then it only works half of the time.
So, with a "for chrissakes" that included my frustration with the doors, as well as my impatience with my parents for not having had the guys fix it properly, and with a general wash of annoyance over incompetent handymen everywhere...I pushed them shut one final time. I don't know why it seemed like a good idea to push on the door fold with my forearm. I'm quite sure I've never done that before.
Because I would remember the blinding pain when the doors suddenly folded together and the hinged part in the middle took a giant chunk out of my forearm. Oh, yes, three minutes before I'm due to go out the door and I'm holding my forearm under the cold water faucet, chanting "don't throw up, don't throw up, don't throw up" until the pain finally faded enough to leave me with eyesight again. A four inch bright red mark, surrounded by a large oval of already, just seconds later, black bruise, surrounded by a giant oval doughnut of swelling. Think Eye of Sauron and you're not far off.
So, the sleeveless dress went right back in the closet, and out came the dress with sleeves. Which might be traumatic for some people, but let's face it, Chico's Traveler's Black...it's all just a question of how long are the sleeves, how low is the hem, what kind of neckline.
So, I did have my disaster, it was just a private disaster. Didn't ruin the night, just hurt like the dickens. Fate reminding me that I'm never off the hook, but that sometimes she can be generous.