Murphy's Law? Hah! Duff's Law is worse.

            In theory, last Monday was supposed to be a very glamorous day for me.  I was headed to downtown Atlanta to argue a case in front of the Georgia Supreme Court.  As if that weren’t exciting enough, this particular case had gotten a lot of press and national attention.  The American Bar Association sent out a press release about it, for crying out loud. 

            My personal chef did not make me breakfast that morning, nor did my handmaid dress me.  I poured my own bowl of Publix brand cereal and sliced the non-mushy parts of the banana into it myself.  I ripped two pairs of pantyhose all by my own self before managing to cram myself into an intact pair.  I did sort of have a chauffer.  My retired husband, Mike, was going to drive me.  Since he was going with me, he had to put on a suit, which was a really big deal for him.  (I must say, in this public forum, that he does clean up very well and looks achingly cute in clothes that are actually ironed.)  Of course, it was pouring rain.  I was looking in the trunk for something as it was time to go, and I had to put down all the things I had brought with me out of the house so I could search with both hands.  We got in the car, and headed downtown.  About three or four houses away from our house, we heard a thunk, and decided that a small tree branch must have hit the car on its way down.

            About a mile from our house, I went to call my parents.  I realized my phone was missing.  I also realized that my phone flying off the roof was the thunk we heard near our house.  We turned around and tried to find it, but it was nowhere to be found, and since I had to look presentable and didn’t want to be late, we couldn’t get out of the car in the rain and search.  So away we went with me phoneless.

            There wasn’t too much traffic, but we weren’t as early as I would have liked to have been, so Mike dropped me off in front of the Supreme Court Building and went to find parking.  I knew from previous experience that you had to have ID to get in the building.  I opened my wallet to get out my driver’s license, and realized that it was in the back pocket of the pants I had worn the day before to go ziplining in the rain (another story for another day.)  In a panic, I searched my car, purse, and wallet for something else that would do and eventually came up with that my bar membership card (which does not have a photo on it and is just a piece of laminated cardboard) and my Stone Mountain Membership Pass (which does have my picture on it), a credit card, and two or three prayers at the ready.

            I walked into the building, and the first thing the deputy at the front door asked me for was my ID.  I said, “See, what happened was…..” and launched into my story, which, thankfully made him laugh instead of boot me out as a security threat.  [Note to self: when convincing someone wearing a gun of a ridiculous story, wear a boring suit and pearls for credibility purposes.]  Since I was due to catch a break, he let me in.

            The arguments went very well, thank you.  If you have nothing better to do for twenty minutes and have trouble sleeping and/or want to see what I look like when I am being Very Serious, you can Google and find a video posted by the Fulton County Daily Report. 

            I am writing this on Tuesday evening, the day after the Supreme Court, while sitting on the hood of my car.  I actually got to go to my favorite class at the gym after work today (4:45 BodyPump at BodyPlex with Sabrina).  When I go to the gym I leave most things in the car.  I bring my keys, which have one of those plastic keychain dangly things that proves I’m a dues paying member, a bottle of water, and my gym mat, because it skeeves me out to lay my head on a mat that someone else has sweat all over.  I have a giant wad o’ keys that doesn’t actually have many keys on it, but is voluminous so that I might actually find it in the black pit that is my purse.  Mike hates my big wad o’ keys, but likes driving my car.  So I keep the wad o’ keys on a purple flowered carabiner so that when Mike drives he can unclip the wad and just use the key.  Anyway, I realized as I was walking that the wad felt unusually light.  I looked and saw that my car key was not on it.  Considering I had just driven to the location, I knew it couldn’t be far.  I retraced my 15 steps back to the car, and couldn’t find it.  I looked in the car to see if it was in the ignition.  It wasn’t.  The door was locked.  Finally, I saw it, wedged between the seat and the door.  It must have somehow fallen off the carabiner as I was closing the door.

            I borrowed my friend and fellow body-pumper Diane’s phone to call my husband to bring the extra key by the gym.  An hour later, when class was almost over, I called him back, only to learn that he could not find the spare key.  Nice.

            Thankfully, the half of the wad o’ keys that was still in my hand contained the plastic keychain dangly thingy that had the number for the roadside assistance that comes with my insurance.  That’s why I am sitting on the hood of my car writing this.  I am waiting for the roadside assistance guy to come and save me from my own stupidity.  I managed to borrow a piece of scrap paper and a pen from Diane so I’d have something to do while I waited, since she had to go to her grandson’s soccer game and couldn’t keep me company.  Priorities.  Harumph.  I’m writing this on the back of the schedule for co-op volunteers, in case you were wondering.

            I’m just glad it isn’t raining.  The maid that lives in some parallel universe I haven’t yet gotten access to yells at me when I walk in the house with wet shoes.