Spiteful Stuff

Okay, everyone harmonize. This will be a self-pitying blues ballad. Sing along if you want.

Some days I feel like the universe hates me. It’s not really mean, just spiteful. Exhibit number one.

The week before leaving to take care of family business on the East Coast, we were shopping. The wind wrenched the door out of my hand, slamming it into the car beside me.

There weren’t witnesses. I could have driven away.

I could see a small ding on the crease line. The Hyundai Elantra wasn’t a new car but a recent year. From the tags, someone had recently purchased it.

My deductible is a grand. I knew this would be less than a grand. I wrote a note, apologizing and providing my contact information. As it happened, I came out as the other drive was leaving. She hadn’t noticed the ding or my note, so she drove off, saw the note, parked and got out to look. I hurried up to her and talked about it.

Now, back home, I’ve received the bill: seven hundred forty dollars for a parking lot ding. Ouch.

Exhibit number two.

I had four flights scheduled for my trip, covering the travel there and back. There were all with United Airlines. I took two of those four; the rest were canceled or missed because the flight before it was late. I ended up on six flights, total. I was re-booked on four flights that were cancelled.  None of the flights took off on schedule. None arrived to their destination on schedule. One hundred percent failure in both of those areas.

I spent one night in the SFO airport going, and a day there coming back. I was supposed to be in that airport for about two hours, instead of eighteen.

One flight that I took was a re-booked flight to cover one of the cancellations. Going through Chicago, they couldn’t provide me a seat number for the next flight. “See them at the gate when you get there.”

We did that. The first agent told us we didn’t need another boarding pass or seats. We would use the same ones, and the same seats.

He was wrong.

The next agent got us seats but we weren’t together. We couldn’t get seats together. That was another recurring theme in this flying fiasco. Originally booked side-by-side, it took a lot of cajoling, talking and visits to agents at the gates to make it happen, and it failed sixty percent of the time.

So, the universe and I aren’t getting along well right now. I don’t think it’s me, personally, that’s making the universe spiteful. I think it’s weary of the world’s bullshit as much as I am. It’s tired of trying to be reasonable in the face of insanity. I understand, in a way, but I don’t like it.

To the universe, please let me know what I need to make it up to you. I’d really like to return to being on better terms with you.


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