Pickles & Dimes

I had an appointment yesterday to get an hour-long massage. I had to cancel.

I think the word ‘disappointed’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. Plus, it was my own damn fault, which makes it sting even more.

Because I am a total idiot when it comes to directions – to the point that I will still print out directions to places I have been many times – I consulted MapQuest. Then, while chatting with Jason on the phone, he asked which way MapQuest was sending me. When I told him, he said, “Why go that way? Why don’t you go this way?” And then he proceeded to tell me a way that was vaguely familiar and I got all excited, because massage, here I come!

My euphoria lasted until I got to the freeway, where my exit was supposed to be “right there.” I needed 94E. My three options were 35W S, 11th Street and 94W.

Dammit.

I, of course, left to my own direction decision-making, totally messed up. Rush hour was in full force. My future of getting a relaxing 60-minute massage was replaced by sitting peacefully on the freeway, shouting obscenities.

I called Jason and we exchanged non-pleasantries. I then called the massage therapist, who told me I could be 15 minutes late and still be OK. There was hope!

I finally found 94E – by total accident, mind you, not because I knew what the hell I was doing – and started speeding toward my hour of peaceful relaxation.

Hey, guess what? Did you know that there was a huge accident on Cretin Avenue last night around 4:05 pm? Yeah. Would’ve sucked to be you if you were someone trying to go somewhere by a certain time for something.

I called the massage therapist back and told her I had to cancel. Then I had to remind myself that I was a big girl and big girls don’t cry, even if they have to cancel something that they’ve looked forward to for a very, very, very long time.

Then I shouted a swear word at the top of my lungs.

Then I decided that since my afternoon was already ruined, I should rebuff all attempts at listening to websites and other people and take MY own way home. And my way encountered zero traffic and got me home earlier than if I would’ve followed any of the other ways.

So I rewarded myself with a Mt. Dew and a Three Musketeers bar and enjoyed them outside while I sat hunched over, pulling weeds.

Because when I do finally get to the massage therapist, I want my back to be totally messed up.