Finn poured a cereal box of sticky honey-coated ‘O’s onto his bedding, then proceeded to eat them with an angelic face. I couldn’t be angry.
He ripped my favorite book of poetry in half. To be fair, the spine was already broken.
When I attempted to take a bath, he found a partially-consumed bottle of Pellegrino on the counter, walked it into my bedroom, and poured it out on my bookbag. He ruined the deck of cards I carry around with me, the artisan-pack with all this bird art my friend gifted me a while back. (It’s what me and Cayden play with on our ramen outings, when we play Chinese poker while waiting for soup).
I was on time for work, but had to wait for the wife and kids to be ready, too; we have a three-car driveway, and the Beetle was landlocked in between Jenn’s van and the landlady’s jeep. Cayden, of course, was not cooperating in getting himself clothed and off the rug and ready for school. Despite us telling him a collective five times.
By the time the landing strip was clear, I realized I had my work keys, just not my car/house keys. The door was locked. I didn’t have my phone either, nor my charger.
I’m still on time, but I have to pry open the kitchen window and winnow in, exploding onto the kitchen table to go search for my keys. I just grab the spare VW key, lock the door behind me, and make my way back to the car.
Do your days start like this, too?
I get to driving, and the street’s blocked because SDG&E has decided to unannouncedly tear up the asphalt near my house, narrowing traffic to a clogged minimum, and—one traffic jam later—I’m at my work , which is itself clogged with spools of construction wire and traffic cones, and WHY can’t things be easy?
I do swipe in on time, though my hair’s in disarray, and thankfully my bookbag’s dry. I have a cup of coffee, bust just dammit. This is a glasses-off day. It’s how I ironically stay in focus. I have 20/15 vision with my glasses on—sometimes that’s too strong.
At work, my friend from the Dive Team says, ‘Hey Thom!’
I’m always glad to see her.
“Hey, Friend! Good to see you!”
“How are you?”
“Well, you know—Trials of Job, but I’m still standing!”
“Can you help me out with this?” she says turning around.
She has a dry-suit, and routinely asks me to help her out with the zipper that zips horizontally from one wrist, past her backbone, to the other wrist. Zippers get stuck every now and then.
I ask her, leaning against the counter: “How expensive is that dry suit anyways?” because I have a wet-suit a work and—wow—a dry-suit must be nice. Means the cold waters don’t get to her.
She smiles. “It’s like $6000.”
I say: “But—hey, friend—invincibility is priceless, right?”