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Karma Girl and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

My body is a hot mess, and I’m not just being Southern and overly humble about my looks. I am falling apart faster than a creationist’s argument, make no mistake. And for those of you who advocate creationism, please be aware that I’m in pain. I make no apologies when I’m in pain. I probably wouldn’t apologize even if I were feeling well enough to walk without limping or cursing, but the last thing I need right now is to be attacked by an angry mob of Ben Steins. I don’t care how good he was in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. His stoic refusal of established scientific fact is rather irritating.

This picture explains so much.

It started out a beautiful sunny Friday. I didn’t have to be at work until 3 P.M and I was slowly, yet surely catching up to my NaNoWriMo word count. All was right with the world. My husband, our friend James, and I decided we were going to eat lunch at Messina’s at the Terminal before I left for work. That’s when my day went to complete and utter hell.

Okay, the lunch part was excellent. As mentioned before, the terminal where Messina’s is located is a beautiful building and the food is just awesome. I think both me and my husband agreed that they do lunch just as well as they do breakfast. James was happy with his fare as well. It was all good. And then, right before we got the bill, I came down with a nasty sinus headache.

Usually when I get a sinus headache, it’s no big deal. I just take some Benadryl or some sinus medication, and I’m good to go. But every now and then I’ll get the mother of all sinus headaches. A headache so bad, it might as well be a migraine or a baby alien waiting to explode from my brain via my sinus cavities. When I get that kind of headache, it comes on fast and furious and leaves me praying for death. The only thing that gets rid of it is crying so hard that every ounce of snot in my sinus cavity comes flowing out all at one time. It doesn’t matter if I spend hours in the restroom trying to blow my nose. Unless I cry, it just ain’t happening.

So Darren pays the bill, and we head outside to the parking lot. Only I’m in so much pain, I’m squinting my eyes and pressing on my sinus acupressure points, so I’m not exactly looking where I’m stepping. Of course, I miss that one last step from the curb to the parking lot, and my left foot wrenches out from under me. I fall flat on my ass and start screaming incomprehensible curse words that were probably some sort of Cthulhian summoning spell. I don’t know exactly what I said, but I know my ankle wasn’t feeling all that happy.

I swear, I had nothing to do with this.

Darren and James immediately asked if I wanted to go to the hospital, but after the initial flare of pain passed-okay, it didn’t pass, but it became manageable-after I could make myself stop reciting the Esoteric Order of Dagon’s initiation oath, I stood up and tested my ankle. It was sore like a rotted tooth, but I was able to walk on it without too much trouble, so I knew it wasn’t broken or sprained. Ironically, my sinus headache was gone. Yay.

On the way home, my husband and I had a mini-argument. He wanted me to stay home from work. I wanted me to stay home from work. Damn, if I didn’t want to stay home from work! Unfortunately, these past few weeks have been brutal for sick call-ins. This past couple weeks, I’ve had to come in early, stay late, or come in on my day off for some other massage therapist. And that’s not counting the one I worked for who was out of town, taking her CEU’s. We lost a therapist last week because she decided she didn’t feel like coming in for another massage therapist after she had already agreed to take her shift. And she was fully booked. AND her client was already checked in and waiting in the client waiting area. No amount of explaining this would placate the man I had to harangue just to get to stay home after puking his guts out from a stomach virus.

I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of finding someone to cover for me, and I already had three clients on the books. So to appease my husband, I called the spa and begged the front desk person to block out the rest of my shift so I could leave early. I figured my ankle could handle three hours of pain. But because fate is a fickle bitch, I almost ended up working most of my shift anyway.

My last client of the night was a couple’s massage. You know the interesting thing about a couple’s massage? You need two massage therapists to pull it off what with the fact that I have yet to figure out a way to clone myself. Crazy, I know. Alas, the massage therapist that was supposed to work this one with me called an hour before the clients were scheduled to show up. She said she was running late with traffic, stuck out of town, and possibly wouldn’t make it. Okay. So…the front desk person called the clients and asked if they’d be willing to come in a half hour later. They said yes. So I’m stuck waiting another half hour for that last massage to begin.

5:20 P.M. rolls around. The clients are here. To make up for the late start, we comp them some drinks from the restaurant downstairs. They’re ready to go. Who should call but the other therapist telling me that she won’t be making it at all because her car has died on her. Okaaaay…

Rayme, the front desk person, looks like she’s about to blow a gasket. I don’t blame her because I’m steadily about to blow mine. She asks me if I’d be willing to take them both back to back. The look I gave her probably would have been comparable to the murder glare I gave Darren’s doctor in the hospital when I was trying to subtly convince him with the daggers in my eyes that my husband would be better off staying home from work. It’s these little ironies that make life worth living, ain’t it?

I sullenly agree. She saves me from contemplating a career change when she suddenly remembers our two clients have dinner plans right after their massage, and they’re cutting it close as it is. So Rayme calls a new hire. The new therapist says she’s ten minutes away and might be able to make it. Might. Meanwhile, we order them some more drinks. Comped, of course. Fifteen minutes later, the new hire calls and says, “Sorry. I’m locked out of my car. I can’t go anywhere.” Seriously?!?!? Okay, sure. Why not?

Rayme and I go back and grovel and beg for forgiveness while informing our clients that we won’t be able to do the massage after all. We offer them an extended service with no extra charge the next time they return. IF they’d be good enough to return. The ladies took it pretty well. They were more bemused than angry and were happy for the promise of an extended service and free drinks. These are the type of clients I wish I could have every day, and I hope, if I’m the one doing their massage, it is, like, the best massage they receive in their entire lives. Like EVER.

On the plus side, I got to go home. And looking back at this experience, I have to say, it could have been worse. My ankle isn’t broken. Even if it were, I’m insured. And I have a job that pays the bills and puts food on the table. My no good, very bad day was more of what you might call one of those “First World Problem” type of days. I can live with that.

Even so. Next time, screw it. I’m calling in. I’ll tell ‘em I’m having car trouble. And my keys are locked in my car. And I twisted my ankle. While escaping aliens. Ninja aliens. Because I guess anything's possible.

*Blogger's Note* What about you guys? Ever have one of those "First World Problem" days? Tell me about it in the comments section or leave a post on my Facebook page.


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