Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Bad Ju-Ju

I had great ambitions for this post when I sat down to write it, but am discovering that writing about such a "simple" topic is challenging.

To put it simply, coincidence (as science would say)/the universe (as the woman who just tried to sell me kale chips in Whole Foods would say)/life (as I think I will refer to it) has been living up to all the old sayings:

  • "Bad things happen in threes." (thank god it's not tens, or I might have gone home crying yesterday)
  • "When it rains it pours." (we know all about that, don't we, Boulder)
  • "I'm pickin' up good vibrations." (er...maybe that was just the Beach Boys)

So, let's start at the top. "Bad things happen in threes," and/or Bad Ju-Ju. This weekend I acquired a lovely necklace. It's pretty and suits my style quite well. It's giver? Well, she's not quite my style, but she is vibrant, creative, and unique nonetheless. She bought it for herself, wore it once, and decided it would be better suited for me, and we can both agree that she's right.

Now, all that being said, home girl has some bad ju-ju going on. She's miserable, she is confident that her life is harder than everyone else's, and, unfortunately, the flaws she sees in other people are projections of her own feelings of inadequacy. Real bundle of happiness, I can assure you.

I wore my pretty new neclakce on Saturday and again on Monday. On Sunday, the bad ju-ju began to creep in. My adorable 11-year-old dog fell into a ditch, and came out whining and favoring his right front leg. No problem, you may be thinking, he's got three more! Only, he doesn't. He already has two bad back legs, I'm quite confident we can't afford to lose a third.

He spent the night whining and whimpering and producing an assortment of other heartbreaking noises, so I took him to the vet on Monday afternoon (honorable mention to my friend Jake who left work and drove to my house just so he could help me carry Cooper to and from my car. Thanks, Jake!), They sent me away with some pain killers (for the dog) and orders to keep him off his feet as much as possible. I followed the doctor's orders, and took him home, drugged him up, and we settled in for the night.

And that's when the fun really began.

1:00 Tuesday morning: The whimpers began. Now, being the good dog-mom that I am, I flipped around in my bed so that I could sleep with my head at the foot of my bed and pet my dog. He stopped whimpering as long as I was scratching. Now, I'm dedicated, but I'm not scratch-your-ears-all-night dedicated. So eventually, I gave up,  I turned back around in bed, and the whimpering began again.

Giving up on a good night's sleep, and just hoping for some sleep, I got out of bed and laid down on the floor next too Cooper. For the next hour, I proceeded to rub his feet while dozing. After an hour, he evidently got tired of having his feet rubbed, and decided that my bed looked more comfy than the floor, and Mr. My-Leg-Hurts-So-Much-I-Have-To-Whimper-All-Night, popped up onto my bed, twirled in one perfect "fluff the pillows" circle, and flopped down with a sigh of contentment. least the whining stopped.

6:30 Tuesday morning: I rolled out of bed like a concrete block, and groggily made my way into my kitchen. I prepped my stuff for work, grabbed my bicycle, and made my way out the door (yes, Cooper was still lying on my pillows at that point...after all, he didn't get much sleep last night). I had to take several detours on my way into work to avoid flood ravaged areas, but over all, the route was pretty straight.

And everything was fine up until I came to the stoplight....

Being the suave and experienced rider that I am, I unclipped my left foot well before I got to the light. I slowed waaaaayyyy down trying to stay on my bike rather rather than step off and wait for the light to turn green. Turns out that I slowed down a little too much, and in retrospect, stopping would have been the better decision.

7:45 Tuesday morning: Approximately 2 feet into the road, I felt myself starting to lean to the right. I panicked and begin to yank on my right foot, desperately trying to free it from the pedal's unrelenting grasp. As is always the case, yanking your foot up does nothing to convince the pedal to release its hold.

7:46 Tuesday morning: I introduced my elbow to the road....along with my ankle, knee, and hip (go big or go home, I suppose). And that's when I really started scrambling. Not only had I just wiped out at a stop light, slightly into the road, in 8:00 rush hour traffic, but I had also managed to wipe out right in front of campus...and say what you will, I don't know if I'll ever be comfortable enough with myself to wipe out in front of my peers and feel cool about it.

But the real icing on the cake, and when I really hit rock bottom was when the homeless man behind me asked if I was okay. I was touched. Truly. Not often that you have homeless people taking pity on an uppity white girl with probably too much privilege and definitely too much pride....or perhaps it's fairly regular and I've just never seen myself through their eyes.

Nonetheless, I popped up off the ground like an eager puppy, assured my new friend that I was fine, and that if I looked bad, he should see what I did to the concrete, clipped both my feet into the pedals (yes, my right foot had come free at last!), and rushed off to work as quickly as I could, trying desperately to catch up to my pride.

8:00 Tuesday morning (I really should have gone home at this point): I arrived at the office, collected my shower stuff, and went down to the gym. Once there, I made the pleasant discovery that I had forgotten both my flipflops and any sort of product I can use in my hair to keep me from looking like a lion. Not only that, but I also discovered that I was bleeding from at least three surfaces, possibly four. Unfortunately, the status of the fourth surface could not be determined as it would have required me to drop my towel, waltz in front of the full body mirror, and turn around to check out my ass...not that I haven't done that...just not in public.

8:15 Tuesday morning: I dragged myself into the office, awkwardly holding my elbow and pants so as not to get blood on my clothes, and avoiding looking in the mirror as I was confident that I looked like a wet cocker spaniel. I sat down at my desk and worked for a few hours before going to the bathroom, where I discovered that I managed to put my underwear on inside out.

5:00 Tuesday afternoon: I mounted my bicycle only to realize that my throw-down with the road resulted in some collateral damage to my handlebars.  Rather than crying, I opted to be happy about it, because, really, the damage made it easier to hold. (We both know that's like saying, I'm happy about losing an arm because it means I have to use less soap in the shower, but just let me have my dream, okay?)

So, I called my mom on the way home, and I explained to her, as I have to you, that I had had a rough day. After expressing her condolences, and asking for a full account of my injuries and operational body parts, her next question was, "Did you wear your new necklace?"

"Yes, mom, I did."

"Go wash that thing in rock salt, and let it dry in the full moon."

"Yes, ma'am."

Now, am I going to go take my necklace to the top of Mount Fuji, rinse it in rock salt by the light of a full moon, and do a rain dance around it until I deem it "cleansed?" No. No, I am not.

That being said, I am a firm believer that you get back to you what you put out into the world, and am incredibly thankful that bad things only happen in threes (I'm counting the underwear/handlebar issue as one). If they didn't I might not be here today to tell you this story.

....not that I ascribe to this superstitious stuff or anything.

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