This morning I had to haul my ass to San Francisco for a meeting…we all know how much I love that. I don’t know what it is about the city that makes me feel like I need to gussy myself…wear real girl shoes, brush my hair and pull out my wool coat.
Anyway, after fighting traffic all the way up there and looking for goddamn parking for ten-gajillion hours…I finally broke down and valet parked. Super…there goes five-trillion dollars. As I handed over my key to the skeezy valet I was suddenly relieved that I had remembered to hide my Victoria Secret bag with pretty pink bra under the seat.
I walked into the building and to the elevator to start my ascent to the sixth floor when I saw the sign on the door that said:
ELEVATOR OUT OF ORDER
TAKE THE MOTHER-EFFING STAIRS
Or something like that. Are you kidding me? I can’t even walk a block in these death shoes, let alone climb six flights of stairs. As I stood there, planning my next move, (maybe the sign is just to trick me into exercise…maybe I could fake sick...maybe there is a window-washer around here who will hoist me up on his pulley thing) a little old lady came through the door and started up the stairs. Dammit…now I have to do it.
Luckily, I made it to the top with no serious injury and only small pit stains.
You thought the climax of the story was gonna be here…didn’t you? You thought there was going to be a horrendous meeting and a eventfully bad drive out of the city. Well you were wrong. We already climaxed. That’s it. I had to drive and park and use my legs. That is my bad day. And you know what?…as bad days go…that is a pretty good one.