Such a farce, a tease, a carrot on the end of a stick that was so much further away than I realized. The day I thought I turned a corner, I did — but only to get hit by a second truck I never saw coming. I was better than I had been, but not well. The true meaning of that word wouldn’t arrive in any real way for another five days (read: until today).
It’s Thursday! It’s time to share some doors!
I try to be organized, but apparently the universe decided I should be even more so. While quickly trying to get to my “delete all cookies” function on the Google Chrome, I mistakenly clicked on whatever doohickey they added recently so you can sync your browsers on various devices. Person One, it said. I clicked the X to make that box disappear, then clicked OK when it warned me it would delete everything ever associated with that account for all eternity. As it listed the account as Person 1 and not my name, I thought I was safe. I clicked OK.
Minutes later, I went to find a link I had bookmarked in my tidy, year- and category-organized bookmark folder. Everything was gone. Seven years of bookmarks. Gone.
Yes, I had backed up the bookmarks, but on my desktop. Thought I had saved them to a flash drive, so I deleted the desktop link.
They’re really really gone.
Did I panic? Did I cry? Did I rant and rave?
Nope. Nope. And nope.
My response? “Oh, well.”
I’ll tell ya, I’ve been reading metaphysical books and meditating and doing other funky Zen-like things for years. It really pays off at times like these. Seven years of bookmarks and I don’t even let out a little whimper or cry?
This isn’t the first time this has happened (the bookmarks deleted, yes; my calm response, no).
In January 2012, a deer jumped out of the dark, over a median and onto the hood and front fender of my Rogue. I saw a flash of brown fur and an eye ball sharing, I’m sure, the same look of terror I had at that very moment. Unfortunately, Mr. Deer didn’t make it. Turns out, neither did the front end of my car.
It’s a good thing I drive a tank, though. The Rogue takes impact quite well. When I pulled over into the closest parking lot — well lit, not 50 feet from our collision site — I saw the damage: the grill was gone as was most of the area around it; the left part of the fender was torn open, probably by his sharp hooves; and little pieces of fur were stuck in the crevices he created, with blood splatter nearby and some on the windshield.
Surveying that scene, I realized — he could have come through the windshield. I thanked my lucky stars that, even though it was bad, it could have been worse.
I looked back and couldn’t see the deer, which must have been propelled off the road by the force. I apologized to the air for killing him. Soon after, I drove home slowly, listening to a Styrofoam part of my fender (really? Styrofoam?) drag on the ground the whole way.
When I got home, I called my favorite Gecko.
“A deer hit my car,” I said.
“You didn’t hit a deer?” the insurance voice asked.
“Nope. I was driving and he jumped out of the dark into and onto my car,” I said.
“These unfortunate things happen, ma’am. Let me look up your account,” he said. “Oh, my. I see you just purchased this vehicle only two months ago? I’m so, sooooooo sorry.”
“Yeah. Thanks. It’s just a car. It could have been much worse.”
“I have to tell you, you’re the least upset person I’ve ever talked to when something like this has happened,” he said. “I like your attitude.”
Me, too, Mr. Gecko’s Helper. Me, too.
Some wise person said long ago there’s no use crying over spilled milk. It seems that if I’m going to cry over such a thing, it’s going to have to be because I spilled a REALLY big glass.