It’s kind of funny how a day can
start out bad. Take this morning for example. First off, you have to
understand that I commute in at a ridiculously early hour. I do this
to avoid the crazy rush hour traffic that personifies the hubris of
the Washington DC area. For those of you that do not live in the
area, imagine thousands of people all attempting to arrive at the
same time at one of the populous work centers that make up the DC
area. Not so different from most metropolitan areas right? Now throw
in a sizeable percentage of those commuters with over inflated egos
and a sense of entitlement enjoined by officious titles and the money
that flows this close to the seat of control of the (still) most
powerful country in the world. Now you see my problem.
So this morning I arose late. This was
planned to some degree. I say ‘planned’ when I really mean that I
realized too late last night that if I was to get my required minimum
hours sleep, I would have to move my alarm clock forward, pushing my
whole day back this morning. This, in turn, would cause me to
possibly miss my scheduled outside exercise entertainment this
afternoon, throwing off my weekend plans, and RUINING MY WHOLE
SUMMER! OMG! Thus, it was imperative that I move out this morning
with the greatest acuity.
After groggily silencing my alarm,
tripping over the dog, assembling my snacks, and gathering my wits, I
still managed to exit the house roughly on schedule to hit office
door at the regular time. As I started up the jeep, I sensed that
something was amiss that would cause me to be late. Call it a dark
cloud, an evil presence, or a sinister omen: something was nagging
me. As I hit the main road out of Camelot, I centered on what it was:
I needed to stop for gas! Arrrgh!
This was not the disaster that it
seemed. I was planning on stopping at the Borg (Seven of Eleven) Shop
anyway to pick up some coffee. My day was still manageable. Arriving
at the Borg Shop, I went through the usual mechanization at the pump
to get it to deliver the magic go juice. Push a button (or not),
insert card, wait for screen to flash unintelligible gibberish, then
remind me to get coffee, more gibberish, enter my pin, more gibberish
then an ad for doughnuts, finally down to business – lift handle,
select grade of magic juice. Needless to say, this particular pump
has no handle to lift, just the phallic (and frankly somewhat
intimidating) nozzle. I’m sure nine out of ten psychologists could
milk something about me seeing a gas nozzle as an intimidating
phallic symbol, but let’s move one, shall we?
The dance at the pump continues. The
gas cap is removed and placed where I will see it in my rear view
mirror in case I should forget to replace it after fueling. This
could entirely happen should I be fleeing masked desperados who chose
this Borg Shop at this particular moment in time to stage a shootout
with their equally well armed rivals. In that case, I would
thoughtfully return the gas nozzle to it proper place, leap into the
driver’s seat, start and gun the engine in preparation for leaving
the whizzing bullets behind. I would glance in the rear view mirror
noting the gas cap in it woeful perch on the spare tire. Slapping my
head I would be able to return to the back of the jeep and place the
gas cap where it belongs – whizzing bullets be damned! The only
thing worse than having to (re)face an early morning fusillade is
having to sheepishly tell the auto parts guy that you forgot to put
your gas cap on and drove off without it, then pleading “please,
please, may have another if I promise not to be so stupid again?”
He will of course respond with a wise and forgiving nod, almost
exactly like a priest in a confessional does after hearing, once
again, that your sorry you took the Lord’s name in vain while
trying to drive to your very important job; knowing that your promise
to not do it again is so much bunk, but bunk that you mean right here
and now so it counts. But I digress…
After inserting the nozzle carefully to
avoid sparks that would surely engulf me, the jeep, nigh the whole
neighborhood in a conflagration of flames I squeeze the handle. This
is the ultimate decision point for the veritable gas pump. Will it
find me worthy of the magic go juice, or will it emit a sinister
laugh, empty my bank account anyway, and leave me penniless, begging
strangers for a crust of bread for me and my starving children? After
a moment, the pump deems me worthy, deciding (today) not to ruin my
life, and the magic go juice begins to flow. I am elated!
Now I am a pump-stander. There are
people that are standers and those that are not. I have no truck with
the non-standers. The instructions on the pump clearly state that it
is your sacred duty to stand by the pump in case gremlins cause the
nozzle to buck out, spewing gas all over the concrete, running across
the pavement to where a bloodied Bruce Willis waits with a lit
lighter, ready to cry “Yippi-Ki-Ya Mother F’er”, dropping the
lighter and engulfing you, your vehicle, the Borg Shop, and
neighborhood in a conflagration of flames. It’s just not worth it!
What is so important in your car that you can’t stand drooling by
the pump for the five minutes or so it takes? Stand there using your
fancy smart phone – it’s ok. I saw where Mythbusters proved that
a cell phone can’t cause the fumes from a gas pump to ignite. Don’t
even get me started on the people that smoke or won’t turn off
their engines. They are just evil, probably from eating too much
watermelon (the devil’s fruit!).
Once the pumping is done, I move my
jeep to parking and enter the Borg Shop to get my coffee. As I shut
my door, I hear a disquieting extra ‘clink’. This sound continues
to disturb be throughout the coffee prep and pay process. Upon
returning to the jeep I go to open the door and nothing happens.
Crap! For about a month the door has only been able to be opened from
the outside, and now that is not working. I go in from the passenger
side, trying (unsuccessfully) to not look like the dweeb I am. I make
the decision to return home to jimmy the door open and make some
field expedient repairs rather than deal with the humiliation of
strange people be-smirking my misfortune there in the Borg Shop
parking lot. Also I am pretty sure the curses I will be required to
use might enjoin some gas pump conflagration danger. At home only the
dog is up to look out the window and bark-laugh at me (which he
does).
With all this returning home, cursing
the door, cursing my scraped fingers covered in old door grease, then
sighing with relief when I get the door to open (and close, then open
and close several more times to ensure it’s working), I and
hopelessly late for work, and it’s not even 4:45am! So, that was my
bad morning. I know, it seems trivial, and it is. I am old and wise
enough to know that even my worst morning is heaven when compared to
what a great many people are facing, especially those in harm’s way
serving our country. Those guys and girls are the ones that can have
truly bad mornings. Or someone in a nursing home or hospital, unable
to get out and enjoy all this glorious summer has to offer. No, I try
to be grateful for my bad mornings. Some days I even succeed at it.
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