Fuck Yeah Karma

Stars aligned to prevent me from sewing with K today, several constellations full.

I’d loaned my machine to a friend, so I arrived at her house a few minutes earlier than I’d planned to be and rang the doorbell. Twice. No one answered, and neither occupant answered their cell phone, either, so I returned to my car, parked perilously on what always feels like a mountainside instead of a driveway. Playing Bejeweled on my phone entertained me only long enough to imagine my emergency break giving out and my car sliding back into the guard rail and my death, so I called their cell phones again. As it turned out, they’d both been home all along, and had heard neither phones nor doorbell. I choose to believe them when they say they were showering… and not something else.

Machine recovered, I jump on the expressway and proceed to zone out and miss my exit. The following exit boasts a Dunkin’ Donuts, and my weakness for an iced latte lite with blueberry, sans splenda, being generally overpowering, I hop off and decide to grab a coffee before turning around.

Only to run into my most excellent grandmother-in-law in the line at the register, who after determining I am not headed to her house, asks in a way that allows only for an affirmative if I’ll be sitting down and having coffee with her. So I do, and she’s such an absolute gem that I don’t mind my morning delayed more even than it already has been. It’s only when I leave and hear a dreadful sound that could signify the crumpling of many, many rubber dolls on the road or a very, very flat tire that I must pull over again to discover the latter.  I admitted then and I’ve got to admit now that I’m one of those people who probably shouldn’t be allowed the privilege of things like tires, given I don’t know how to change one – frankly, I’d rather take the subway or a hoverboard, but I’m making the best of the Midwest.

Danny the Ameristop rock star changed my tire and I learned more from him than I would ever have had the patience to observe if it had been my husband. Danny reminded me of my brother, all hoodies and tees and patience with strangers. He explained when putting the tire on that I ought to tighten in the pattern of a star to keep the spare from wobbling. I followed his hands blackened from the tire or the tools or both, looking for something else in the pattern. I took the back roads home on my spare, spools of thread and bobbins from my upset sewing machine rolling on the floor beneath the passenger seat. I was wondering and wobbling despite my sturdy wheels,  figuring for all the bad this morning it was good. And fucking strange.

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