PMS + UCB = 1 Bad Day

Today I worked a few minutes later than usual. I raced from work to a 6:00 pm UCB make-up class. Keep in mind, every step was still excruciating pain from my gym snafu.

I walked in UCB at 6:12 pm, ran to the bathroom to change, then to the class. The entire class watches me walk in as the teacher scoffs, “Can I help you?” I explain that I’m doing a make-up class and was told to come to his class. His voice dripped with disdain as he informed me, “I’m sorry, uh, but you’re over fifteen minutes late, so I’m not allowed to let you in my class.”

I paused, debating about whether I should point out that technically I’m already ‘in’ the class or just surrender to the UCB warlords. So I sputtered out an “Uh…um…okay,” as I realized that all of the people previously staring at me are now staring at the ground. No one is making eye-contact and you could have heard a mouse fart as the teacher continued, “You’ll have to call Shannon to reschedule…”

I might have squeaked out another “okay” as the cry valve shut my throat off. I made it out without crying. I made it to the train with no tears.

On the train I began to do what every wounded person does – plot my fantasy revenge. In my specific scenario, I’m casting for my movie and the nameless jackass comes in to audition. He opens his mouth to read his first line and I stop him and say, “I’m sorry, that’s not really what we’re looking for." He is stunned. I turn and say, “Right, Tina?” Tina Fey calmly nods for security and two beefy models carry him out as he stutters “But, but…but.” Tina sips her coffee and laughs so hard that latte shoots out her nose. It doesn’t even matter that this ficticious scenario is completely absurd, it’s a powerful coping mechanism.

Right smack dab in the middle of my fantasy revenge plot, the train screeched to a halt and the power went out.

It’s rare in New York City, that twice in less than twenty minutes, you experience breath-holding silence. My first thought was, “Great. I’m about to be gassed by terrorists and my last minutes on this earth were spent with a bad attitude.” Or worse, I’d survive the horrific ordeal and get off the train bawling as reporters ask me what happened. With gurneys carrying people in the background, I’d explain, “It was awful, I walked in and everyone was staring, then the teacher asked me to leave and they stopped staring…”

Then the power came back on and everyone exhaled.

I got home. I was looking forward to changing clothes then going to the gym and boxing my frustrations out. Only after all of the contents of my purse were strewn in front of my front door, after every pocket was empty, after all that is good in the world was gone, did I realize that I was locked out. 19 degrees outside and locked the hell out.

This is not the bottom of my dark abyss. No…

Then I call my husband from my cell. I’m cold and venting. Sometimes no matter how wrong you are, you want to hear a familiar voice say, “Awe, that stinks!” or “I know the feeling,” or “It’s freezing out, I’ll rush home now!” Instead I got, “Well, I kind of understand…if I had a class, I wouldn’t want my students coming in late….”

I don’t know if it was the steam coming out of my ears or the gods of telecommunications that dropped the call. He then proceeded to call back and check on “Captain Happy.” He thought this new moniker was hilarious. I, however, did not.

If the Thai restaurant nearby hadn’t been open, Captain Happy would have kicked in the front door to get out of the cold.

Moral of the Story: Don’t play devil’s advocate unless you want to play with the devil.