Pass the Ketchup, Please

... there'd be days like this, my Mama said.

I started yesterday morning by putting a scratch on Birddog when I cut too close to the gate (no need to say anything – I’ve berated myself quite enough, thank you). Entirely my fault, I was late for work and hurrying and not paying nearly enough attention. I bunged my knee in an absolutely unpleasant way (hard enough that I found myself wishing that the pain would actually make me pass out). What followed was a day of bumping into things, dropping things, knocking things off my desk, making mistakes I don’t typically make. I double check my work anyway (any good accountant does), but normally for me, when I make a mistake I see it right away - “bad” numbers jump off the page at me in much the same way that misspelled words or grammatical errors do. I dropped my half eaten apple (the only food I had with me) in the dirt at lunch. I’m surprised I didn’t catch my eyelashes in the paper shredder. My bio-rhythms were definitely off; gone for the day. I can be clutzy and I would never claim to be graceful, but this was a particular case of Shoulda-Stayed-In-Bed Syndrome. Monday with a vengeance; a monster with big hairy teeth.

It’s rare that I have an entire day that just keeps going wrong, and I hate when it happens! What changes? What weird vibe out there in the vast nothing does that? I don’t get it. The whole day had me bummed; the harder I tried, the less I succeeded. I finally gave up and just did what I could, checking my literal and figurative parameters every inch of the way and hoping like hell I would get home and into bed without causing any further crises.

I did make it home unscathed, albeit in a bit of a mood. Top it off, Scott would be sarcastic (which is normally fun for me, but not yesterday... nooooo); Nino was hellbent on proving he really could be a bad dog; Midnight would screech and try her best to trip me. As I was looking for some comfort in the act of cooking up a pot of spaghetti sauce I got a call from a friend/coworker. We spent some time bitching about the day, about the way dingos handle things (or don't) sometimes, yadda yadda, blahblablah, grumble, whine, kvetch. At some point I said, "Yeah, it was just a very bad day."

That's when the big bucket of startlingly cold water got dumped on my head, as from the other room I heard Scott mutter, "You don't know what a very bad day is. A very bad day is waking up having a stroke."

Yowch! Touché, Master. Way to put this grasshopper in her place. Whip my ass and don't even leave a mark. That's some skill. The world flipped and my attitude immediately changed. He didn't even know I heard him and still doesn't.

Perspective is everything. Having to eat my own words (y'know the ones I so glibly toss out... any day above ground is a good day), I found myself wishing I could add a little salt, maybe some ketchup... anything to help choke 'em down. I neither recall the last time I felt such chagrin and such utter clarity, nor if I've ever experienced a moment of such perfect truth. A bad day is waking up having a stroke. A bad day is hearing, "There's nothing more we can do for the cancer but make you comfortable." A bad day is when you can't walk around and bitch and moan and throw things because you're too weak to get out of bed because you're dying. Those are bad days. The rest of it is just inconvenience.

What I had was an inconvenient day. Today is better. I am above ground, after all. Don't know about y'all, but I'm spending this particular 24 hour shift being thankful for getting another day at all - good or bad. Hey, who am I to look the gift gods in the mouth? Now, where'd I hide that last bottle of Brudda J's Hot Sauce...? Y'never know when crow is gonna be on the menu.