So there I was, talking on the phone about 3:00 am this morning, in between swallowing big chunks of Shelley and Byron with my not-quite-five-hour-old coffee. All three are better with hazelnut, for the record.
“Are you going to church this morning?” she asked. I knew she wanted to do breakfast.
I told her no. I was wiped. I made my commitment of making every Sunday in August, and it’s been a long (but wonderful) week. I realized as I was walking down the hall that I was actually walking with my eyes closed.
Definitely no church. Unless, I told her, by some divine intervention I happened to wake up in time, because I was crashing as soon as I jumped in the billion-thread-count-sheetless bed.
Divine intervention, it would appear, can come in the form of a full bladder. I woke up about 10 minutes before the service and threw on clothes and made it. 15 minutes after it started, but I did make it.
I took a prosperity seminar last Sunday. The Spiritual Center celebrated its fifth anniversary, and they had a guest speaker, Chris Chenoweth, come in and give his seminar. There’s this whole financial end of it that I honestly haven’t worked with yet because I’ve been focusing on other aspects that I feel that I needed more in right now. Mainly determination, perserverance, and an abundance of creativity for all the papers I’ll be writing this semester.
Which is 10, by the way. Twice as many as the spring semester.
But there was a mention of financial prosperity, of windfalls and landfalls, of debts owed and due being resolved.
Wouldn’t that be nice?
But last night, as I was moving my stuff from Sherry’s house to mine, just in time to drop it off, feed and snuggle The Cat, and head to work, I was pulled over by a policeman.
“Ma’am,” he said, “Did you know that in the State of Mississippi, it is required to come to a full and complete stop at a stop sign?”
I would have sworn that I did, but to be honest, my mind was elsewhere. It was entirely possible that I just “California stopped.” But then I recognized the cop. It was someone I had dated when I was 19 years old, back in college the first time. I had seen him once since our infamous car accident on Friday the Thirteenth in over a decade.
This was fortuitous in two ways. One, because he digs me, I didn’t get a ticket. Two, I had the chance to catch up with someone I hadn’t seen in a long time and hopefully will get in touch with someone from our old gang to whom I owe an apology which is far, far overdue. We chatted; he’s married with 2.5 kids — two girls and one in the oven. Married his high school sweetheart so on and so forth, still hates our mutual friend’s wife and absolutely loves being a cop.
But it hit me while I was driving to work that, 13 years or so ago, he and I went to a Cure concert in New Orleans. I bought the tickets, and he never paid me back. I had totally forgotten all about it. But I’m thinking that a concert ticket, with interest and penalties, over 13 years, pales in comparison to the money I saved on a traffic ticket, as well as the insurance penalty that comes along with it.
I won’t say it’s coincidental, but I do find it amusing.
Oh, and I will be making full and complete stops at stop signs, even if I’m listening to Tool.