Cheering on today’s marathoners put a smile on my face, as it does every year, and almost made me forget the injustices of the previous two weeks. Notice that I said almost. Shall we review the timeline? Do we care? Too bad.
Let’s start the story the week before last when a variety of strange illnesses struck three out of four family members (myself included), eventually resolved themselves, but then mutated into more virulent strains resistant to antibodies, elixirs, and reason. I’m beginning to think you can catch this stuff via Twitter because that’s the only place I’ve heard about these multi-week fevers. I just assumed people were making things up for 140-character sympathy. My bad.
The 3YO suffered the worst of it, by far, and though he has recuperated just fine, over the two weeks he missed four out of six pre-paid preschool days. If you have kids, then you know what kind of toll this takes on even the most patient parent, but especially one who can only work nights and preschool days. One who works somewhat speculatively in an already tenuous marketplace and who doesn’t have the greatest history of securing lucrative freelance work as it is. Hence the blogging.
But it was okay because I had my monthly Ladies’ Night Out to look forward to mid-week and I was really more desperate than I should have been for wings. I mean, wings are great and everything, but I was literally dying for wings. Eating locally means you rarely get to eat more than two wings at any given time, and that’s if you’re being really selfish. And, I’ll admit it, those 23 honey hots made me feel one thousand times better. Until I found out that my car had been towed sometime around the 14th, I’m guessing, though the timing doesn’t matter.
I just stood there in the middle of the empty parking lot for the longest time, staring at the No Trespassing sign in front of where my car was supposed to be. I tried to muster indignation, but it was no use. I sheepishly made my way to the ATM to make one of the largest cash withdrawals in recent memory and here’s where things get a little fuzzy. I either unknowingly dropped my bank card somewhere or, more likely, left it in the machine as I was counting the stack of crisp twenties that would soon go to supporting my local towing company. It’s possible that I couldn’t hear the insistent beeping over the din of me berating myself in my own mind:
Me: What, do you think you can just park your car anywhere you want? The sign said “Patrons Only.”
Me: I am a patron.
Me: A patron today.
Me: The sign wasn’t specific.
Me: You know, this isn’t the carefree late-nineties before kids when we all sat around and made big bonfires out of our disposable income just for fun. Use better judgment.
Me: But you can’t park anywhere, ever around here and yet sometimes you still need to park your car.
Me: In Boston, yeah. But this is Newton.
Me: Shut up.
Long story short, my bank card vanished, too. I’m probably not supposed to admit that I cried the whole two miles to the tow yard, I was so beaten down. I’m probably not supposed to admit that I walked the whole way there in darkness because I refused to hail a cab not only because it would cost maybe another $8, but then I’d probably have to stop crying for a half a second and that really wasn’t going to happen. I pulled it together in the last quarter mile. There’s no crying in tow yards.
So anyway. Yeah. I think I need to get a job.