Misfiring

One of my favorite quotes is from Julian of Norwich, who said, "All will be well - every manner of thing will be well." Sometimes, though, "things" in my life seems to misfire. Like when I get to court and realize that my socks don't match. Or make a special trip to the office supply store to buy an ink cartridge and get all the way back home before realizing it's the wrong one.

The other day, I was on the phone with my middle son; daylight was quickly dwindling, my ancient pooch desperately wanted her walk, and I decided I could surely do both activities at the same time. Getting the leash on one-handed was a little difficult, but I managed. Once Goofy Pooch was out, I stepped one foot back into the house to close the door. The leash and telephone in one hand, I reached for the door with the other - and my foot began to slip on the runner in the entrance hall.

What my inner logic was for not letting go of the leash or phone, I don't know. In semi-slow-motion, I saw myself sink into modified splits before toppling backward and crashing to the floor. There was a loud "thunk!" as the bottom of my pelvic bone came into hard contact with the hall tile.

Not surprisingly, I yelled. My son, hearing only "Ahh!" and "Ohh!" began yelling, "Mom! Mom!" Goofy Pooch tugged at the leash (still in my hand) and shot me looks that accused me of sprawling in the doorway for recreational purposes. It was a brief and completely undignified bedlam.

Another misfire later that week was less painful. I have a well-earned reputation for being punctuality-challenged, and have been trying to correct that persistent flaw. So when a good client sent me on assignment to a law office, I carefully calculated my time to allow for the construction traffic on my route and left the house with plenty of time.

What I had forgotten about were the school zones. Traffic slowed to an agonizing crawl. When the clock on the dashboard reached 1:55, I called the client and babbled an apology, explaining that I was only 10 minutes away. The project manager assured me that all was well. Nine minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot, dashed upstairs to the office, and practically dove through the door, apologizing for being a few minutes late. The friendly young receptionist told me to have a seat, and insisted that all was well. The attorney who had asked for me stuck his head out into the waiting room and said that no one else had arrived yet and to relax - all was well. And then it hit me: my appointment wasn't for 2:00. It was for 2:30. I was 25 minutes early. I had yet again failed in my efforts at punctuality, but this time on the upside.

And while this kind of winning misfire would normally tempt me to sit on my laurels, I had to pass. I was still sitting on ice packs.