Dear Sirs:
I have had a realization. There are two types of bad days: #1The kind of bad day that inspires frustrated, pointless violence; you want to kick the wall and yell and punch random strangers for wearing stupid-looking hats, or sitting too close; you want to throw things through windows just to hear the satisfying cacophony of shit breaking. #2
The kind of bad day in which you realize you’ve been beaten, and would cry about if you even had the energy; you don’t, so you just want to lay down for a long time and forget. But you don’t do that, either; you just go about your regular activities and hope no one is paying enough attention to notice the blank look, and they’re not, so you’re fine. Monday was the first type, and today was the second. Tomorrow will be fine, because I have decided that in advance. On the way to an interview this afternoon, Bad Day #2 was somehow managing to reverse itself, despite the fact that I sat in traffic for an hour, listening to crappy angry music, regretting eating that apple I eat almost every single day, even though almost every single day it makes me sick to my stomach. Pavlov would’ve hated me. Anyway, I got there and everything went fine, and when I went in my purse to get out a business card, my wallet was gone. And my cellphone, too, although I didn’t realize it at the time. On the way to my car, I traced backwards through my day. I had the wallet at Starbucks in Maplewoodbury, at lunchtime. I had made a point of being careful about my many accoutrements when I walked away from the counter, because I had just had a somewhat upsetting phone conversation, and am keenly aware of my propensity towards being absolutely scatterbrained when I’m emotional. (Not that I’m emotional. I am a robot. A robot.) Afterwards, I had stopped at SuperAmerica, where my coworkers buy the most putrid, disgusting ‘food’ ever to leave the assembly line, then bring it back to the office and microwave it, not for the purpose of consuming it, but to make me gag at the smell when I walk in the door. I had to get windshield-wiper fluid, and wash my windows, because the driver’s-side nozzle wasn’t spraying. And the thing I’ve discovered is that it doesn’t matter that your car may be a marvel of Swedish engineering, totally tricked out with ass-warmers and leather and a little springy cupholder in the dashboard, it is rendered near-useless by a malfunctioning sprayer-nozzle, when you are unable to see where you are driving. And recalling that moment, I realized just how much I was losing it. I popped the hood, and there, nestled quite warmly on top of the custom Saab battery cozy, was my wallet. Even though this strikes me as really funny after the fact, I came home and cried. But I’m fine now, really, I’m fine. Jenni