If only you could hear the irony in my voice.
I’m on “reserve” yet again this month, sitting around waiting for the company to need me to work a flight. This kid of schedule used to be hell. 14 hour days back to back and minimum rest periods until you think you’re going to drop from exhaustion.
Until the economy went to you-know-where. Almost no one, it seems, is getting sick or stuck in traffic! So here I sit, for the second day, in my “crash pad” apartment in NYC. Just waiting. The computer already has me assigned to sit around for tomorrow too – not a good sign.
…And JUST as I write that – I got a call! Off to Rome I go. (Yippee!)
So here I was yesterday. A day off of work, meeting my dear Del for a little take-out lunch at Subway after he came home from teaching. We’re walking home briskly, Del insisting that I carefully cradle the sandwiches like infants, we’re almost there. La-de-da. Gabbing about something. And BAM! I slam down to the ground, landing on my palms and one knee. It’s like someone did a leg sweep on me.
Ouch! I don’t remember having scrapes like this since I was a little kid – and now I fall a whole lot further then I did then!
I sat on the ground for a couple of minutes, too hurt to be embarrassed in the slightest or to laugh, cradling my knee but afraid to look at the damage. I can’t believe I didn’t break anything but skin. Thank goodness. As the fog of shock cleared and I looked around to see what happened, the culprit was clear. A plastic band, the kind used to bind any number of bulky items. Like you’d see in construction to bind lumber or something. Pretty impossible to break without scissors.
A loop of this has been tossed on the street. With unique talent, I had stepped on one side of it with one foot and into it with my other foot. All the way around my ankle. It makes me think of poor sea turtles getting their necks ensnared in those old plastic rings of soda 6-packs or plastic bags. They just swim right into them and before they know what’s happening…BAM! The chances of these things happening seem infintessimally small, but obviously they do happen. And when they do, it’s serious. Call me crazy but I’m going to be more sure than ever not to throw any of those away without cutting them. Meanwhile, I wonder how silly I will look walking around without bending my left knee, especially at work in heels and pantyhose.
And by the way – can I say my sister rocks?! I went to visit her even though I was exhausted (see: Braindead post) and I’m so glad I did. We had a great weekend. She had VIP tickets for Cirque de Soleil’s Koozo show – my first Cirque viewing, which I literally watched with my mouth hanging open the entire time – as well as the Tutankhamen exhibition, which was heart-stoppingly cool. (They had one of Tut’s wooden beds even!) The climax of our visit was 2 hours of playing Guitar Hero before I left. Nothing humbles me more than that game, or makes me laugh as hard. Thanks for a great weekend, sisters!
The beauty of a long engagement, I thought, was that I had plenty of time to take the long way around to doing things. The ways that allow you to avoid the money pit of all things labeled “wedding”. You know, the word which automatically jacks up the price on everything from napkins to patience 1000%?
I had researched everything. I thought I was going to be so clever. When the bridal bargain books tell you that you can have any wedding you want for $100, well, I came to believe them. But…the short end of it is…that didn’t end up making any difference in the cost department. (It turns out that you can’t just do research, you also have to be brave. As in, you have to be willing to go with alternative vendors. And you have to jump in with both feel and just roll with it. A task that I pretty much failed at, even as laid back as I tend to be. Of course, you also can’t need to please anyone else – which is just rarely the case, now isn’t it?) Particularly with the invitations, which I have already alluded to the drama that that was. I won’t bore you with the long drawn out story, but suffice it to say that if there was a miscommunication to be had, we had it. Up to and including her delivering the invites weeks late, to the wrong place (which she claims no responsibility for). Gah! But we finally got them and I spent my only 2 days off and home busting butt to get them out. And – YEAY – 98% of them are finally out of my hands! Talk about relief!
And after all the stress that they were, I have to be grateful that half of our guests are Irish. For in the midst of (very expensive) envelopes occasionally getting eaten by the printer, or individual lines smearing across their limited-number of sheeny closures, the Irish addresses made me laugh. Every time. It’s like I was sending invitations to Hobbits (By which I mean only to say that it’s charming). You get address like this:
Mrs. Gail Headly
Republic of Ireland
And that’s it! No house numbers. No zip codes. I know. It’s silly of me. But really. Isn’t it quirky that such places still exist in the heavily industrialized world?
And the beauty of it is, it’s so opposed to the task at hand. Here I am ripping pearlized paper out of a home printer/scanner/copier and balling my fists in huffs of anger…because the place where this envelope will go, to a house thousands of miles across the ocean, delivered to an address without so much as a number in it…is smudged. It just made me laugh, every time. I can’t wait to thank these people at the wedding.