It had been a frustrating few days
They weren’t bad days because I have few days that can be legitimately cataloged as bad, and I am thankful.
On Monday I wrote a check for the wrong amount of money and had to straighten out that mess.
On Tuesday I caught my foot in the strap of my purse and fell out of my car right onto the Kroger parking lot.
Then yesterday I prepared to mail four stacks of paper to four family members.
I separated the papers, folded them, and placed them inside four 6” x 9” envelopes.
These envelopes had metal fasteners. Since I know the Postal Service does not like those closures, I placed wide packing tape over the backs to seal the envelopes and cover up the metal brads.
As I picked up the four envelopes, I discovered one was lighter than the other three. This meant I had accidentally left something out of that envelope.
I reopened it and found I had indeed failed to include two papers. Using my keen sense of deduction, I concluded one of the other envelopes contained two extra papers.
Using great care, I tore open the other envelopes, messing up the packing tape and damaging the flaps in several places. I found the two papers I needed, corrected my error, and resealed the envelopes, trying to patch the torn spots.
Then I added stick-on return address labels and postage stamps. (I keep on hand the special 68-cent stamps I routinely use for these mailings.) Finally, I wrote addresses on each envelope.
As I headed out the door to take the envelopes to the mailbox, I realized I had written each address upside down, so when the mailing address was readable, the postage stamp was affixed to the lower left corner of the envelope and the return address label was in the lower right corner.
The driver of the mail truck waved at me as she drove past my house.
In a wretched mood, I drove to the post office and mailed my mutilated envelopes. Then I swung by the store to pick up mint chocolate chip ice cream, the one thing guaranteed to make me feel better.
I brooded over my growing list of mess-ups as I roamed the ice cream aisle. By the time I got home from the store, I was in a major funk.
I put my ice cream in the freezer and lay down on my bed, not to pout or to have a pity party really, but just to decompress. My thoughts ran along these lines.
This constant flow of stupid mistakes is killing me. I am a beaten woman and can’t take it anymore. I’m never getting out of this bed.
Of course, I knew I would get out of bed because I refuse to spend the remainder of my life lying on sheets that never get washed. Not to mention with teeth that never get brushed or hair roots that never get touched up.
And then, of course, there were other reasons to get up: the grandchildren and brownies and springtime and another season of Victoria to watch on Netflix and an Easter dress someone would have to wear.
From my bed, I called out to Dan in a weak, mournful voice.
“If you will bring me a dish of the mint chocolate chip ice cream I bought today, I think I might be able to get up and face the world again.”
I heard Dan open the freezer door.
Then I heard him laugh.
“You just think you bought mint chocolate chip ice cream,” he said.
“The only thing in the freezer is a box of rum raisin ice cream. How many scoops do you want?”