And so it was last Friday, as I sat stuck on a delightful conference call, watching the many other missed calls and lost minutes eluding I-35 traffic pass me by. Drumming my fingers against my ancient desk, miserably unable to focus on anything except the growing traffic and litany of missed calls, the other line and usually beloved iPhone kept me prisoner.
After addressing the worst of the crises, I stumbled out the door to my rental car - turns out my insurance company AND car dealer have decided I am sacrificing car ownership for Lent - and sped away, only to have the gas light flip on. It wasn't the only thing flipping at the moment, but I mustered whatever remaining logic I had and, muttering some very un-aspiring Princess of Monaco curses, pulled into the nearest station.
You know what happens next - the cell phone starts ringing again, this time from a BF calling with important news, so I pick up and start fueling Vile Rentalmobile at the same time. To the disappointment of urban legend-tellers and my parents, this did not cause me explode.
No, no - the explosion came as I, distractedly chatting on the phone, attempted to remove the gas pump without switching off the auto-pump off. Oh, did it ever remove - all over my preptastic, ridiculously on-sale, dream of this sort of outlet mall find, beat-up-yet-still-favorite ballet flats.* Pretty pink bows and all. Since gasoline-soaked shoes weren't enough, I doused the hem of my jeans for good measure as I screamed and flapped around.
*This admittedly helps justify my recent Revas purchase. That I ordered them one day before this happened is wholly irrelevant.
I'll admit there may have been times when I've desired to look like a certain Miss Spears, circa her 1999 Apex of Cute, but going barefoot in a Small Town, Texas gas station in 2009, down one pair of favorite shoes, isn't one of them. At all.