It Was One of Those Days

Last week I had one of those days. Nothing horrible, just a day.

Betsy's asthma was flaring up, after a cold, for the first time in ... what? A year? Eighteen months? I went to call in a refill on her inhaler, but realized the prescription had expired. (That will happen, I guess, when one seems free of asthma for many moons.) So I called the doctor to see if he would phone in a new prescription, just to get her over this hump. The nurse said she would call me back only if there was a problem, and she thought I could plan on picking up the prescription in a few hours.

I moved on. I wanted to print out a couple of notes for an interview I'd be doing the following day. We'd just had the modem replaced the day before and suddenly the wireless printer didn't want to communicate with the new modem. Their temperamental little spat was not amusing. I tried to get them to make up, but the printer would have none of it. I couldn't print a thing, and Anne asked me why I kept yelling futile commands at the printer.

After lunch, (on break from Printer Battle Royale) I called the pharmacy just to make sure the prescription was ready to be picked up. I thought I'd run out quickly, grab it, come home, work out. Then I could enter the electronic war zone again while endorphins were coursing through my body and I felt supremely patient and in command of my forces.

The pharmacy had no record of the prescription being called in.

After heaving a sigh that was probably heard in southern Florida, I called the doctor's office again. I gave the long, plaintive version of Betsy's history. I pleaded with the nurse to relay to the doctor that it was imperative for them to believe that Betsy knows what she needs today. (Because she just does, that's all.) The nurse said she would talk to the doctor and see what was up.

While I was waiting for the doctor's office to call back, I ... I don't know what I did. I didn't work out, I know that. Because I was, you know, waiting.

The doctor's office finally called back, and I was told we could get the inhaler renewal called in and then was given a stern admonition that Betsy must be seen.

I needed to throw something on the table for dinner, so I did. I have no idea what we ate. I then embarked on another quick (I hoped, ridiculously) battle with the printer, but I didn't make any headway. I retreated. I needed to go pick up the inhaler, so I headed out to do that, thinking I'd make it quicker by going through the drive-through at the pharmacy. I sent my credit card through the ever-so-convenient pneumatic tube. But the poor girl at the other end of the transmission got a confused look on her face. Even over the Skype-y screen that we were talking on, I knew something was wrong.

"You ...  didn't send your payment through ... did you?" she asked, brow furrowed.

"Yes."

"Hmmm. It ... ummm...."

I could tell that she didn't know how to tell me this.

"It ... didn't make it."

Yes, people, pneumatic tubes sometimes gobble up credit cards.

Just because they can.

This had never happened to the nice lady at the pharmacy. It wasn't her fault. I knew that. I paid with another card. The pharmacy lady "heard something fall" at her end of the tube. She and I both got rather excited to know that my credit card was not eaten, but was simply in hiding. I got Betsy's inhaler, the lady explained that they'd get the maintenance guys into the store in the morning, and they'd dig my card out. I drove home, expecting to hit a deer.

(I didn't.)

It was one of those days. Frustration. Tears of frustration. Just one of those days.

I did battle awhile longer with the printer when I got home, finally Googled a hack to get the machines talking again, rejoiced when it worked, printed out some notes, reviewed them, and finally flopped in to bed.

Did you know that there's really no point to this post other than to share the day? And to remind myself (and others), I guess, that we all have days like this. Sometimes it's a mood, sometimes it's hormones, sometimes it's because everything really is going wrong and we're reminded that maybe Murphy's Law isn't just an expression.

I tell my daughters this kind of stuff regularly. When someone's had a rotten day, and someone is in tears, or someone is feeling ultra-stressed, I remind them: This is life. It's full of bad days, good cries, and new starts on the morrow.

It was just a day. The next day was better. Most days are better.

After one of those days, it's just nice to say that out loud and know that it's true.