"If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have none."
How many times have you heard or spoken that simple sentence? I know I can't count the number of times those words have crossed my ears or lips, and I often sum it up to being "my father's daughter" - The MacInnis curse extends even to the adoptees, it would seem. I've heard the "only fools believe in luck" retort about 5.8 million times, too, but let me tell you: bad luck exists. I know this because it likes to follow me around like a lovesick puppy, but that's OK. As angry as it makes me from time to time, I'd like to believe that it's my bad luck that makes me funny.
You might remember the eight weeks leading up to Christmas: my apartment was stripped by management, I lost countless things I needed, I had to live in a hotel for a week among a whole sleuth of crappy things to happen. Then, in mid-December, things took a turn for the positive: I landed a much sought-after PR job, found out I was getting some help with my schooling costs, met some great people, and full two-weeks to hang out with the coolest kid I know. I celebrated the overload of good with a new hairdo, bought myself some new clothes for my new job and floated along this newfound Cloud Nine.
I had it in my head that my strip of bad luck was gone: that it was all the fault of 2012. I mean, my husband and I split up, I had to leave my job, have a colonoscopy, leave the house I loved so much and then got robbed. Wasn't that enough? Apparently not. Whatever cruel being who hands out luck decided that I hadn't quite had enough of the bad, and threw some more my way last week.
It was a pretty exciting - though standard - week, last week. I started my new position, meeting new coworkers and feeling that sense of accomplishment that only comes from realizing a huge dream. After work on Wednesday, I decided to go running. It was mild, the dog was cooped up all day and there's nothing a good 20 minutes in the fresh air won't fix, right? After almost meeting my maker thanks to a stupid taxi driver, I walked the rest of the way home. Sheesh, that was close! I thought to myself. (Note: I will be purchasing reflective to wear on my white and blue running jacket before my next run!) Thursday was completely uneventful. I ate leftovers and did Zumba for over an hour.
Friday was full of excitement. I was visiting a location for work, going to Truro to get my baby brother and his girlfriend and then on to New Glasgow to trade some passengers: D and his girlfriend, R, would go on to Cape Breton with Dad while F and Mom would come to Halifax with me. I watched the clock, anxiously, waiting for 5:00 to flash. I locked the office door and started out to my car.
In the parking lot, I noticed a navy blue car with a massive dent in the passenger door. That sucks, I thought as I made my way towards where my car was parked... but where was it? As I got closer to the dented car, I realized that this was my car. I could feel fury rising from my toes. I'm not very tall, but it's still a long old way from my toes to my mouth when you're this angry!
"Are you FUCKING kidding me?" I half-shouted, looking at the damage to my car door. With rush hour traffic picking up, I angrily threw my bag into the car as tears filled my eyes and I dialed by Dad's number. I ranted for 25 minutes about the low-life who would back his or her truck into my car and then drive away without leaving a note.
Once my fury had (kind of) subsided, I joked that people won't park next to me because they'll be afraid I'll run into their car. The hole in the front of my car from hitting a moose was bad enough, but the dented passenger door is just too much. I cringe looking at it, and I'm pretty well convinced everyone who looks at my poor car will figure I'm a terrible driver. Which, arguably, I might not be the worst driver but I'm a long way from the best...
The good news is my car is ugly, but driveable. It means I still got to pick up F, and right now he's running around the way any newly-three-year-old boy would. Today is his birthday. In 8 hours, it will be totally official. My baby is three. In an hour, I'll be at work. Not even crappy luck can bring down the happy spirits in this house today...
...unless I find another dent in my car.