Timing Is Everything

October 9, 2010

Come Wednesday morning, I was starting to get a little paranoid. Especially after the garage door let out a long and languorous moan as it made its way up my car's bumper, leaving marks not only on the bumper, but also on my very soul.

After all, it was the second time in twelve hours that my car had been in an accident. And both had occurred in my driveway.

The night before, after a most excellent dinner out with friends (proving that it is possible to have an excellent time--if not an excellent dinner-- at Spaghetti Works, where, apparently, there's no real pressure to clean off the salad bar), I'd shooed everyone out of the car halfway up the drive, knowing we'd struggle to unload in our cramped garage. My act of kindness, though, quickly turned against me, when I could not resist gunning the engine and chasing down said friends. Alas, one of the car's back doors swung open, just as I was passing the porch railing at an impressive 18-mph-clip.

I don't think I'll file that one with my insurance company.

Generally, I swagger through life with the confidence of a booty-rich pirate, never doubting that things will be good and bounteous. In my defense, most of my confidence is rooted in others, who possess both the skills and the good will to clear the path for the rest of us so that we seldom encounter the proverbial fallen limbs of life along our own trails.

Sometimes, though, I encounter a series of glitches that force me to start looking over my shoulder. Repeatedly.

Midweek proved to be one of those times.

My dual car "accidents" (after all, how can I really call them "accidents," sans quotation marks, when both were the direct result of my stupidity, something that is no accident?) were followed, in quick succession, by a string of other unfortunately-timed incidents.

First was the email from our school newspaper publisher, who should have been congratulating us on the timely delivery of our first issue, one we'd spent copious amounts of time preparing. Instead, though, theirs was a doom-and-gloom message, cloaked in an "OMG--DIDN'T WE TELL YOU THAT WE CHANGED THE SIZE OF OUR NEWSPAPERS?!" tone. My initial reaction was to rifle through the fridge and medicine cabinet, for anything marked "18 percent alcohol" in the ingredients' list. My second, more-reasoned-less-seasoned response was to tell the publisher that I looked forward to hearing about their no-additional-charge solution, the one that did not involve me.

The email was followed by "A Series of Unfortunate Events," including but not limited to: the white-tinged and very visible proof to my students and peers that I do, in fact, apply deodorant (most) every day; the mysterious disappearance of six oh-my-god-do-you-know-how-much-these-cost,woman!? senior-class portraits, the realization that our yearbook pages included neither column guides nor page numbers, and the discovery of chin hairs so taut and full of potential as to qualify them for quill-pen consideration.

I was starting to feel like lady luck had packed her bags for another destination.

And then I walked by our school's official sign-in guard, a man who takes our themed Spirit Week days to a new level. On this, Respect Our Elders Day, he had managed to cram his 250-pound frame into a sprightly, flower-spattered dress, complete with accompanying hose, wig and blush (or maybe it was house paint, I'm not sure).

Seeing him stationed at the front desk, the official "First Face of East High," warmed my heart. That the people who lined up in front of his check-in desk happened to be visiting teachers from such far-away lands as India, Burma and Bangladesh, each of whom spoke a different language but all of whom were thinking "What the...?!" in their native tongues, . . . well, it made me realize that I was going to be okay after all.

Thank you, Mark Siske, for proving to be the turning point in my bad luck. I'm glad it found your strong, capable, smartly-dressed shoulders to fall upon!