I had some car trouble a few weeks back and left my van at Home to be dealt with by the Cousin Mechanic, and even though the Van is fixed now (The Mother has been driving it some to make sure we're good), since gas prices have been up, I've continued to drive my father in law's old Focus. That doesn't have a tape player in it. Which means that I can't listen to my mp3 player. (As for all you "Just get a radio receiver" naysayers...go away! I would have to go purchase something to use that contraption, and that would be work. This is my corner of the internet from which to complain.) The first few weeks it wasn't a problem; I had some CDs from The Auburn Fan and then I bought the new Adele album. (If you haven't done this yet, GO. Now.) But my drive to work has been decidedly more droll, and I miss my random assortment of music. Ugh.
We moved last weekend. About 12 feet or so up, that is. Still, it was a pain, and the lack of sleep that came with the whole experience is something from which I'm still recovering. Ugh. I knew my Trusty Coworker had jury duty Monday, but since he's an attorney as well, I assumed no one would want him and that he'd be back in the office Tuesday morning. WAS I EVER WRONG. He can't talk about it (duh, he's a real live juror at this point), but they sure did want him, for some reason unknown to me. And no worries, trial will last no more than THREE WEEKS. But who did I feel sorry for? Not Trusty Coworker, oh no. ME. The past twenty-four hours have been one giant pity party for FloCo, and it has not been pretty. Ugh.
Then, on my drive home this afternoon, The Mother calls. She says hello and asks how I am. I dejectedly say I am fine. Then, in a teary voice, she says, "I have some bad news." I nearly faint on Highway 280. "What?!" I cry. "Is it The Last Grandmother?! Is it one of the Canines?! WHO IS DEAD?!" All I can think is that it's The Last Grandmother, and that I won't be able to attend the funeral because of Trusty Coworker's juror duties. "I hit a deer with the Van," she says.
All I could do was giggle. Here I am, feeling sorry for myself, and my mother is nearly in tears about my blasted vehicle. I ask, "Are you okay? Did it come through the windshield?" "No, but it did crack it all the way across. You'll also need a new headlight."
That's it? Really? More giggling. Everyone is safe, and the Van may be a little worse for wear, but it is easily fixable. There has been no death or need for tears. I am humbled at the realization that I have been feeling so sorry for myself when, really, are three weeks alone at work so bad? There could be a Canine in Peril, or a sick relative, or utter destruction of my parents' Home. Three weeks? I've got clients and a mounting pile of sticky notes to amuse me, and poor Trusty Coworker is trapped in a courtroom listening to litigation. Bah. I'd rather be the one at work than the one on jury duty, and I do think my attitude is better already.