|Jinny has been very ill and is currently undergoing rehabilitation in a Bangor facility so she will not be writing her article for awhile. She is making excellent progress and hopes to be able to return to writing her column in the near future... Adele.
Periodically, I have what I ironically refer to as perfect disaster days. Quite simply, these are days that start out badly and only become progressively worse. I had just such a day yesterday. It was a doozy.
I started the day by forgetting to set my alarm. I don't do this often, but when I do, I invariably awaken with just enough time to get to work if I run around like a mad woman and half do everything. I would almost prefer waking up too late to do anything but take my time because I am so late that there is no salvaging the situation whatsoever. But, of course, I instead had to dash about like a maniac idiot and try to get to work on time.
The tradition of such days getting worse was confirmed when I tripped upstairs over the cat. I must digress here to say that I never have tripped downstairs in my entire life. I trip upstairs. I have descended staircases at a run in 4 inch high heels and landed light as a feather and perfectly safe at the bottom a hundred times. My problem appears to be ascending because I can be wearing the safest and most comfortable athletic shoes imaginable and be moving at a snail's pace and land on my face going up. I suppose I should be grateful, landing on my face going down would probably be a lot more dangerous and painful.
There is the added factor that I have come to the conclusion that my cat is trying to kill me. This is not a decision I have reached without considerable evidence to support it. She is forever flinging herself under my feet, attacking me suddenly without the slightest provocation, and generally behaving like a professional assassin. Each time that one of her attempts on my life fails, she becomes quite huffy and retires to the window ledge to stare at me malevolently in grave disappointment. I am convinced that she spends her days plotting to take over the world, starting with mine.
After my little accident on the stairs, I went to the bathroom to try and rush through my daily routine. Naturally, I managed to burn myself with my hair straightener. I have curly hair and in this humidity, if I do it on one day and don't wash it, I have to touch it up the next day or I have hair that looks schizophrenic. Being curly, my hair requires a straightener that is powered by nuclear fission. Trust me, it's hot and the slightest touch on skin is horribly painful. It might be argued that I should just let my hair be curly, but I can be obstinate.
I managed to make it to work without going off the road or being kidnapped by aliens, but experience has taught me not to assume that a short period without a disaster means that things are going to improve. I was right.
It was 6 AM and I had a knee that hurt from my cat's foiled murder attempt and a painful burn on my forehead at the hairline. Then someone spilled a rather large container of fruit punch down the front of me; from neck to knees. The fruit punch was, of course, a violent color of red, which traditionally stains worse than any substance on earth. It was also full of sugar, so now I had a bum knee, a painful burn, and a nasty, sticky, wet stain down the front of my nice outfit. Any sane person would have just given up and gone home sick. Not me. I went to the ladies room and did all that I could to remove the stain and stickiness. When I came out I was only partially successful and soaking wet, despite attempts to dry myself with the air hand dryer in the bathroom. I went outside and stood for awhile in the stiff morning breeze, hoping to dry off sufficiently to do my job.
Things didn't improve; my employees were grumpy and whiny, the hotel guests were nasty and demanding, and someone I wouldn't let within a hundred feet of me on a bet kept wanting to chat. I was relatively dry but I felt like I had been dipped in sugar water and smelled like eau de KoolAid, a scent which obviously attracts the terminally horrific. I was miserable.
Little disasters kept occurring throughout the day. I dropped a container of flatware on the ceramic tile floor, which made a sound like a thousand men in full armor clashing against each other in battle. I made a dozen mistakes on a project I was doing on the computer. I had planned to do an inventory of one of the bars that day but I vetoed that idea; I could just see myself dropping a bottle of Creme de Menthe on my foot or losing a hand in a margarita machine. I have learned not to take unnecessary chances on disaster days. I try to watch what I do when my Karma is obviously on the dark side.
I managed to get through the day, which felt as if it were two weeks long, and made it home without incident. Once at home things kept right on going down hill. I discovered a leak under my kitchen sink, which I couldn't fix because I didn't have the right tool. It was probably for the best, who knows what might have happened if I had the opportunity to wield a large wrench.
I went to bed that night gladly, happier than I can say that the day was over. Before I went to sleep I got to thinking that maybe I was all wrong about my cat. Maybe she wasn't out to assassinate me and take over the world at all - maybe it was more like a mercy killing.