Just when you think life is going to keep rolling along with no wrinkles, you wake up to another rainy day. No worries. Seasonal Affective Disorder is really just a myth, right? If I keep telling myself that, I might start to believe it.
Back to the story …
Driving to work yesterday—rain pouring down like it has absolutely nothing else better to do—my windshield wipers decided to take a rest. Yep, they got stuck. Wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t go swish-swish-swish. Just about when I started to panic (driving 60 miles an hour on a two lane road in pouring rain with no windshield wipers is enough to panic this girl), the rain eased off to a fine mist. I could see through that pretty easy so managed to get to work with no bumps, no dents, and no angry motorists along the way.
My boss is one of the most understanding people I know. When I told him I needed to leave as soon as the rain stopped so I could get my wipers fixed, he didn’t even blink, just said okay and be safe. He is a jewel.
Back to story, again …
So, I take care of some work that I really needed to do and head out to get the wipers to swipe.
It took an hour and a half for the service rep to tell me the wipers work fine. Nothing wrong. All is well, no charge. I thank him kindly, get in the car, start the ignition, and turn on the wipers—it had started to rain again.
What did the wipers do? Did they work? Nope, they got stuck at 2:00 o’clock.
I hadn’t even left the parking lot so drove right back into the service bay and showed them the wipers wouldn’t wipe. Two and a half hours later, I need a new wiper motor and they can have one in by Tuesday. It was Friday. So, three-plus days of no wipers, in rainy old winter.
I love being at home.
I hate being stuck at home.
Adding insult to injury (wiper motor = big bite into budget), I no longer have an excuse to not clean my house.
Ever wonder about what might have been? I don’t very often but in the last few weeks have indulged in a romanticized trip down memory lane.
A friend from college recently mentioned via Facebook that a mutual friend from back then wasn’t doing very well. You see, the mutual friend was tucked way back in a cubbyhole in my brain as “the one that got away.” It’s a really long story and I won’t torture you with the details except to say that I always thought it was my own fault. I’ve carried around regret for years and, from time to time, wondered what might have been—until my friend and I took our conversation offline (yes, people do still have conversations outside of Facebook) and I learned more.
You see, I’ve always believed in fate, that things happen for a reason. Maybe not the things I want, much less the reason I want them, or when for that matter, but there is always a reason. As a result, I’ve pretty much strolled through life going with gut instinct. I learned early on that over-thinking big decisions leads me down the wrong path. Doesn’t matter what the decision is about. Whether it’s to pick up and move across the country or what color car to buy, if I over think it, it does not work out well for me. (I still, to this day, can’t fathom why I bought that gray car. I hated it. I hate gray. Yet, it seemed like such a good idea at the time.)
Hearing more about our friend, and how he’s conducted his life, brought an end to my little excursion down memory lane. You see, it turns out that if the “one that got away” hadn’t, I would have gotten what I wanted at the time, but would have regretted it year after year after year. That regretful reality would have been so much worse that my regretful “what might have been” illusion.
Which leads me to reprieve.
From where I sit now, it looks like that fateful day, regretful though it was at the time, was my reprieve from a lifetime of disillusion.
This happy camper’s big decision today is whether to go with dusting first or running the vacuum. H-m-m-m, my gut says read my new book.
I recently passed the 5th module in my quest for CCP (Certified Compensation Professional) via WorldatWork’s certification program. Past the halfway mark, with the toughest ones out-of-the-way, I can focus on the fun stuff like job analysis, documentation, and evaluation. Yippee!
I am not being sarcastic. I enjoy this stuff. Really.
What I don’t enjoy is cleaning house. Which is obvious to anyone who steps in the door.
Dust is my friend, dust is my friend, dust is my friend …
Last summer—in a moment of insanity—I bought new bedroom furniture. The insane part wasn’t buying the furniture because I’d had the same stuff for about 30 years and new furniture was way overdue.
The craziness was buying mahogany furniture with a black stain. Every, and I mean every, fleck of dust shows on every surface.
This stuff starts showing dust on the end of the dresser I just dusted by the time I get to the other end. And, I always know when my cat, Emily, walked across it because she leaves a trail of paw prints.
I could have bought the same set in white but was afraid it would show dirt too easily given Emily’s penchant for walking all over furniture.
So, in the spirit of “if you can’t beat ’em join ’em” I’ve decided I can live with shades of gray.
I draw the line, though, when it starts looking like it’s been sprinkled with baby powder. Dirty snow is not a good look.