It’s a new thing, I’ve decided. I refuse to follow the rule of 3 to assume tonight was the first of a new round of three. Do not tell me otherwise. Do not fight me on this.
Thursday night y’all know about. Darling daughter and the hubster had the misfortune of seeing a drunk fall down concrete steps in Minneapolis, ruining the evening. We’re still trying to convince her to stop talking about it. We’ve unfortunately moved on to other …shall we say… incidents best described as First World Problems.
#Iknowright Poor me.
Friday evening was supposed to be enjoyable. Gorgeous MN weather, headed to the last choir concert of our son’s year. Hubby tried to drive him to the concert early but the springs on the garage door broke. Right? So irritating. I found him 20 minutes later, yelling for anyone to hear him while the rest of us were out back holding the door up so someone could drive the cars out since really, the concert was starting in half an hour and this wasn’t gonna fix itself. Take a moment to picture him standing there helpless holding a two-stall garage door above his head.
Okay, so we get to the high school parking lot, visions of the garage door bill in our minds. A high school kid backed into my car. I was going 2, he was going 2, no injuries…but the car was crying a little. We can’t open the front passenger door because it’s caved in. First World Problems.
So we have our three. We spent the weekend reassuring ourselves we had our three things and had come to terms with insurance and garage door appointments and time missed from work to deal with all of it.
Funny story – I had an intern start yesterday at work. ‘Tis customary to take a new employee out to lunch on their first day, right?
Can’t open the passenger door.
Seriously how awkward is it when you’re ready for lunch, eager to chat up something other than work and learn a bit more about this person and you tell her she’s gotta sit in the back seat? Immediately I start apologizing for items left by offspring in door pockets. OMG I’m certain there is most likely a fuzzy fast food hamburger bun in there and it’s her first day and I shove her in the back and what if this is the deciding factor for her not returning the next day?
Anyway. Yay me, she came back today. I didn’t scare her off.
Tonight though. Tonight was #4 and no one is allowed to tell me it’s #1, round 2. My love of cycling (bicycling) comes from hunky husband. My night to ride with my biking cronies is Tuesday. We ride 30 miles. We joke around. I could not tell you who these people are outside of spandex shorts and bike helmets but they are truly the coolest riders around. They are my peeps.
Tonight something was off in my ride. Sure, my lungs were screaming, that’s normal. My legs didn’t appreciate the break my lungs forced us to take the last two weeks so I was tired and falling to the back of the group. Not typical of me, the competitive person I am, I casually mention to Obnoxious Jim that tonight is not my night…I know this 10 miles in. I’m really not positive I could do another 20 without seriously bonking.
No lie, 2 miles later my front brake flies off and is dangling by the brake cables. There are some expletives and truly I get a pass for using them. We’re literally right outside a biker bar (the motorcycle kind!), on a highway basically out of town, and I’m getting attacked by parts off my own bike. Since it’s the brake that’s now swinging I can’t necessarily slow down like I normally do but two other riders were close enough to see that one bolt go flying and me start the colorful language.
Once home, after my sag wagon retrieved me, we found a huge chunk taken out of my brand new bike and its fancy matte black paint job. Is this worth a #4? I didn’t get to finish my ride and my ride is now blemished. I hereby dub this Number Four.
Hey! Number Four!:
It may be in your best interest to stay clear of us for a few days. We don’t know what’s next.