Let me tell you of a tale so savage that it tears at the fabric of logic and destroys the mundane routine of going to work.
And it involves a ravenous trash can.
My husband was leaving one morning, driving his new car, listening to the radio and eating an egg biscuit. He was cruising through our neighborhood with nothing particular on his mind, just another typical day gearing up to put in the work hours.
I was already at work, having left before sunrise to beat the traffic. I can’t stand rush hour and possibly being late for my early office hours. He tolerates rush hour traffic better than I do.
So there I am, in my office, working on something important, when he calls sounding distressed.
“I’m okay, but I got in an accident,” he says.
“What happened?” I’m thinking he got hit by another car.
“A trash can attacked my car.”
I may have snorted a little. “What?”
“The wind blew it off the neighbor’s yard and slammed the metal handle into my side mirror. Broke it off.”
“Oh.” That sounded a little more travesty.
He had put the mirror in his car, driven to work, and had promptly ordered a replacement. Apparently, ordering a matching paint color part from the dealer would cost a small fortune, so he ordered an after-market part. When it arrived later in the week, it became the weekend project to swap out the interior components and put them in the original mirror covering. Now you can’t tell it was broken, except for a small black piece from the after-market shell that had to be used (the car is silver). It still looks classy.
Things happen in life. Proverbial ravenous trash cans can rear their ugly heads in the least expected times, and it’s up to us whether we roll with the punches.
Keep going, dear readers.