Last Friday was not a good day. Not a good day at all. I had such plans! I have a mountain of deskwork to do. Work I've procrastinated about doing. Work that needs to be done NOW.
Work that takes a computer to do.
Sat down at my desk, to post a note on the blog and to write the Fine Art Friday entry. The computer was off. The Zman had printed his Comp2 essay before I sat down, so I assumed he had just turned the computer off.
And we can't make it turn back on. No matter what. Seeing my plans all bursting into flames around me, I proceed to throw what in my family is known as a "Donald Duck fit." You know, one of those where is has sweat drops jumping from his head and spit drops flying out of his mouth? Not pretty, huh? I call poor PapaC on his cell phone, 'cause he's on his way to work. Fuss, fuss, fuss at him (like it's his fault?), until he finally says, "Look, you want me to take a day off work to come home and work on it?"
Well, no. I guess not.
But bleah. Just bleah.
The day goes on. I read a little, do a load or two of laundry, talk on the phone. Do I diligently clean house or work on the myriad of other tasks that I ought to be doing?
So, I go to adoration from 1-2 p.m. I go every Friday at that time. It's the one constant thing that never changes. And I always feel better after I go. Sometimes I feel better because God has spoken to me in a real way. Sometimes I just feel better because I went even when I didn't want to. At least something got checked off the list for the day. You know? But Friday was a good day. I had much to thank God for--NOT the computer, of course--but some very good news from a very good friend. I left feeling so much better.
And I probably felt more than a little bit smug.
After adoration, there is a 30 minute window of time before I have to pick up McKid from preschool. Too short a time to go home. Too long a time to sit in the parking lot.
So, I headed over to Half-Price Books to just spook around for half an hour.
And I know, I know, I don't need any more books................Sigh.
On the way into the store, I tripped on the curb. My flip-flop caught the edge of it. And there I went, stumbling along the sidewalk in front of the store. About as graceful as, oh, an elephant. Just when I thought I had caught myself, my flip-flop toe went upside down under my foot, and I lost all chance of righting myself without a fall.
And what a fall it was! I mean, if you're going to do it, do it up right. Don't just fall to your knees. Lay it out flat on the ground, hitting you hand, knee, and STOMACH (yeah, I fell that flat!), right there by the clearance book carts. And pray, while you're falling that you don't crash your head into the carts, making all the books fall all over you. (Got lucky there.)
But here come people running out of Half Price Books. "Ma'am! Are you all right?! Let me help you!"
And here's where the pride and humiliation come in. Bad enough to fall. Worse to fall in public. But why is it when I do that I feel the inordinate NEED to jump up (when I'd like to sit there for a moment) and start telling everyone, "Nope, I'm fine, I'm fine. No problem." All the while thinking, "Well, this'll give 'em something to tell their friends over dinner tonight!"
Why is that? Why couldn't I just say, "Hey, thanks. Let me sit here for a moment. And, by the way, could you bring me a wet cloth for my shredded hand that's bleeding?" Nope. Apparently not in my vocabulary.
So, here I sit, with a bruised and very sore knee. And a really sore hand. And a whole mind-full of thoughts about my pride.
Oh, and the computer? When Papa C came home, he turned on the switch.