Friday, February 5, 2010
All Was Well . . . And Then . . .
I woke up yesterday morning feeling great. All was well.
I sauntered into the kitchen, flipped on the light. The light worked.
I poured myself a big bowl of my favorite cereal. I went to the refrigerator. We had milk.
My cereal was very good. I didn’t rush it. I enjoyed it.
Then I got cleaned up and dressed for work. I finished getting ready right on time. I drove to the office. I made it there right on time.
When I sat down at my desk, I got to my tasks. I finished everything I set out to do . . . right on time.
At lunchtime, I wrapped my teeth around some food. It was very good food. I had just the right amount to eat -- not too much, not too little. When it was time to go back to work, I was willing and able. And I finished everything I set out to do.
My wife called while I was at work. She said everything was well. She just wanted me to know that. I told her all was well with me, too. She told me all was also well with our 6-year-old son.
After work, I drove home. I made it.
That’s when I realized traffic didn’t stop me. There were no Sig-Alerts. There was no construction. The motorist on his cell phone wolfing down an animal style double-double from In-N-Out Burger and grooming his dog while piloting his car didn’t smash into me while I drove through that green light.
When I got home, my wife was watching TV. It wasn’t a reality show.
The mail in my mailbox was addressed to my wife and me -- not to my neighbors or to the people who lived in my house 20 years ago.
I decided to trim some trees on my property. Raccoons the size of small rhinoceroses had been using the trees as their gateway to my rooftop for tap dance parties that took place in the middle of the night. I dug out my rickety extension ladder, threw it up against the trees, and hacked the branches away from the house. My ladder didn’t collapse.
When I changed the oil in my car, the twigs I used as jack stands didn’t snap and send the underside of the vehicle into my face for a kiss.
The shower rained warm water on me when I went to clean up for dinner.
My wife had my favorite dinner hot and ready for me when I finished cleaning up.
My son spilled peas off his plate, and the vacuum with an over-stuffed pick-up bag still sucked up the mess when I ran it over the floor.
All was certainly well.
And then it kept going well.
“What kind of Friday the 13th is this?” I asked my wife.
I tried to make unfortunate things happen to me, but everything turned out well. I tripped over obstacles I placed in the middle of the floor for the very purpose of injuring myself. I couldn’t get hurt.
I tried to start an argument with my wife. She gave me a kiss.
I told my kid he could do whatever he wanted to do and that, no matter what he did, he wouldn’t get busted. He made an “I love you, Daddy” card.
For a columnist who uses daily events as source material, “all is well” is not so well at all. Stories without conflict are not stories. I have nothing to write about this week, as you can tell if you made it this far. In fact, the following gap is brought to you by that lack of something to write about:
“For some people,” my wife said, “Friday the 13th actually brings good luck.”
Wouldn’t you know? That’s just my luck.