There are days, I am sorry to say, when one is confronted by the question “What the hell happened?!” and the only true response one can offer is “I don’t know”.
Or perhaps, “I do know, but I’m not telling you.”
I’m sorry to drag you back into the work week, but I am struggling with an error that I’ve never made before, an error I can’t trace, an error I can’t account for.
What? No! Never mind what the error was! Can’t you see I’m in turmoil?!
For cryin’ out loud!
So while not specifically naming just what, exactly, the error involved (the blood spatter was easily cleaned up, I don’t care what those janitors tell you) I will tell you that it was mortifying. It was a blunder! A gaffe!
Me! A mistake!
Can you believe it?! Sure – I know I’m cocky! And most of the time, I’m completely at home with this bloated and self-serving vision of myself.
Most of the time.
And then there’s the other times. Like the time I wandered into work with my skirt tucked in my pantyhose; the time I ruined a perfectly good office chair through an unfortunate monthly miscalculation; or the time I realized, around 2:30 in the morning, that I had given my boss the wrong airline ticket for a 7:00 a.m. flight – I got up, drove the 20 miles to work, heart pounding, in my pajamas; scared the living shit out of the janitors; and then drove, from memory, to a place I’d only been once before.
Thirty miles. In the dark. In the country.
I left the tickets on his windshield wiper.
See, some mistakes are instantly visible (ie, one’s nylon-clad, skirt-less butt); and some are not (one’s driving, pre-dawn and pre-cardio infarction, to deliver the correct airline ticket).
Yep, there’s nothing like being knocked down a peg or two; and so while I cling to my pride, which is, today, several notches below its usual perch, I just want to say:
Blame has been placed. Steps have been taken. Procedures have been put in place.
That is all.
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