You know how sometimes your Monday has extra Monday in it? Like you have Monday juice smeared all over your Monday?
Well, that was my Monday.
Most of the day was a typical Monday, you know, filled with lethargy and denial about being back in a cubicle and feeling the weight of all the other weekdays on your shoulders.
But the day ended as they always do and I walked to my car ready to put it behind me.
This is the car that sat dead in the driveway for nearly a year.
I got in my car and turned the key.
Nothing. Not even a click.
I went through the five stages of grief:
Denial: Nope. The car isn’t dead. It’s not dead. I will just turn the key a zillion more times and it will start and then I will go home.
Annoyance: Are you fucking kidding me?
Absurdity: Well, I guess I just live here in the car now. I guess I’m never fucking going home.
Bargaining: Fuck. The only person still here is the boss. I don’t want to ask him for help. If a mechanic would just wander by, I promise to be nice to all the other humans for at least two and half weeks.
Extreme Annoyance: Fuckity fuck fucking shit. I’ll go ask the boss.
It’s possible those aren’t the actual stages of grief.
As I came to the conclusion that my best bet was to ask the boss for help, it started raining. Perfect.
The boss came out to the parking lot with me, I got in the car and it started right up. This should have been a quick and happy end to my tale of woe.
He asked me to pop the hood so he could take a quick look, so I did. He pointed at the connector thingies on the battery, one of them had worked loose and was barely touching the knob. He took his shoe off and whacked it back into place. Fucking problem solved.
I turned to open my car door to drive home.
It was locked.
The car was still running.
My stress level went into hyperactive overdrive and I broke out in a sweat. I mean I sweated like a goddamn horse.
The door wasn’t completely closed, just latched, so we got a hanger and forced it in the door and attempted to push the lock. It was kind of like trying to push the lock down with a piece of cooked spaghetti. We got a second hanger and wound them together and after much hunting and pecking, got the goddamn door unlocked.
I had to be gracious, y’all. To my BOSS.
One would think the tale of woe ends there. But no…the universe wasn’t quite done fucking with me.
I called Randy to tell him what happened and was greeted with a perky automated voice telling me my phone service was suspended.
I forgot to pay my cell phone bill.
I was quiet for a moment. I’m not sure exactly what I said, but I know me and it was probably along the lines of Are you fucking kidding me..what…fuck…stupid fucking fuck..GAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH.
If you live in the tri-state area of Ohio, Kentucky and Indiana and heard a string of profanities drifting by around 6:00 pm yesterday, that was me.
I was connected to the phone company because at least they were kind enough to allow that call. I paid my bill over the phone and got my service reinstated.
I decompress by listening to loud music. I really needed some loud music.
I turned up my radio and of course since my battery disconnected, I LOST ALL MY PRESETS.
Okay, I will agree that in the big scheme of things, that isn’t so much an issue, but at the time..it was the goddamn end of the world. At that point, I might have had a few salty tears mix with the salty sweat already on my face.
When I pulled in my driveway, I decided that I was going to stuff my face with the first thing I found in the fridge, then lay in bed and watch Doctor Who until I passed out in a carb coma.
Then I remembered what I saw when I was driving into work on Monday morning. I saw this guy:
Instead of the carb coma, I watched Doctor Who while working my anxiety out on my treadmill.
Today is a new day. Here’s to hoping it only includes normal anxiety and not acute anxiety and that my car doesn’t end up on the side of the expressway in a fiery inferno.