Saturday, August 25, 2018
A Tragic Tale With a Happy Ending
I believe I mentioned that I took a bit of a tumble while in New York. It had nothing to do with alcohol, of course, which is so often unfairly maligned in these circumstances. I continue to maintain that someone remodeled the room while I was in it and moved the steps solely to spite me. But regardless, I ended up with a cut leg and some ripped suit pants, neither of which looked particularly amazing. It was, without a doubt, the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone, anywhere, in the entire history of time.
Hoping to triumphantly recover from this horrific setback, I took the pants in question to my dry cleaner and asked if they might be able to fix them. "You want a patch?" they said, which right there should have been a clue to me. "Uh, well, sort of, I'm just hoping this is something you can repair?" I said. And yes, I uptalked to turn my sentence into a question, as I often do when I'm speaking with people who I think may not understand me and kind of freaking out. "Okay, patch," they said, and threw the pants into a nearby laundry basket. "Saturday?"
And today is Saturday, my friends. And when I picked up my pants, my dry cleaner had brilliantly turned the small rip into a giant discolored spot, which looked like someone had maybe attacked the pants with airplane glue. When the lady brought them out to me, I failed to control my instinctual reaction to say, "Oh, that doesn't look good." And she responded "Well, it's about as good as it's going to get." Checkmate.
The happy ending, though, is that I immediately came home and looked for the pants online, and found them on sale at a huge discount. They'll be here in 5-7 business days. And yes, it's true I had to go one waist size up, but who the hell am I kidding anyway? Triumph over tragedy, people. It doesn't get any better than this. Which, come to think of it, should really alarm all of us.
I believe I mentioned that I took a bit of a tumble while in New York. It had nothing to do with alcohol, of course, which is so often unfairly maligned in these circumstances. I continue to maintain that someone remodeled the room while I was in it and moved the steps solely to spite me. But regardless, I ended up with a cut leg and some ripped suit pants, neither of which looked particularly amazing. It was, without a doubt, the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone, anywhere, in the entire history of time.
Hoping to triumphantly recover from this horrific setback, I took the pants in question to my dry cleaner and asked if they might be able to fix them. "You want a patch?" they said, which right there should have been a clue to me. "Uh, well, sort of, I'm just hoping this is something you can repair?" I said. And yes, I uptalked to turn my sentence into a question, as I often do when I'm speaking with people who I think may not understand me and kind of freaking out. "Okay, patch," they said, and threw the pants into a nearby laundry basket. "Saturday?"
And today is Saturday, my friends. And when I picked up my pants, my dry cleaner had brilliantly turned the small rip into a giant discolored spot, which looked like someone had maybe attacked the pants with airplane glue. When the lady brought them out to me, I failed to control my instinctual reaction to say, "Oh, that doesn't look good." And she responded "Well, it's about as good as it's going to get." Checkmate.
The happy ending, though, is that I immediately came home and looked for the pants online, and found them on sale at a huge discount. They'll be here in 5-7 business days. And yes, it's true I had to go one waist size up, but who the hell am I kidding anyway? Triumph over tragedy, people. It doesn't get any better than this. Which, come to think of it, should really alarm all of us.
