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Laughing at the fumble, I grabbed my keys and Bible bag, glancing inside to make sure my highlighters, colored pens, and sticky notes were inside as I set out the door.
I raced down the steps, my shoes sloshing in the puddles being flooded out by the fat raindrops. They hit my head like nickels. I still do not own an umbrella, despite living in the Northwest, but I kept meaning to find one that's durable and won’t turn inside out at the slightest hint of wind like my last one.
I almost holler to my virtual assistant, but I remember I am in public now, where talking to yourself is not considered normal. I jetted to the covered parking and breathed in relief when I reached my car.
Umbrellas can be triggering for many fears, since I live in the Pacific Northwest and it’s an accessory staple, but there is one scenario that really takes the cake. Of course, there is nothing more embarrassing than when your umbrella has a malfunction. You can be looking cute as a daisy, waiting at a bus stop whena gust comes up, and then you're holding a metal rod with spikes sharp enough to poke everyone’s eyes out if the wind shifts because it’s turned into a weathervane. Now, you must quickly announce why you no longer need the bus so that you can fix the umbrella in private, as it’s bringing generational shame.
“Oh no, I forgot I have to go home.”
As people sighed in relief, watching you and your maiming tool flee, they whispered, “If her hair gets any frizzier, it may break off completely.”
Not that I would know because,of course,that's never happened to me.
My car is freezing.Turning over the engine to my ten-year-old SUV, my teeth chatter as I wait for the heater to kick on, noticing the windows fogging up immediately. The wipers go haywire, and the radio is three times the volume it should be for this time of day, blasting out a crooner from the early 90’s. It’s one of those songs I’ll always be able to belt out the chorus, but the rest of the lyrics I’m stumbling through. This doesn’t matter as I’m generally not singing around people unless I’m at church, and thankfully, there we have lyric books and overhead projectors.
I laughed as I was reminded that the last time I was in my car was Friday night after work, and I was in a much different frame of mind then. The high hopes of a peaceful weekend staying up late and not being in my work cubicle was exciting. I enjoyed my job as a paralegal, as I loved the research factor, but I had more than a few coworkers who I found nosey. I didn’t know why they cared about my quiet life, considering they would all go out on the town almost nightly, and if they really did care, why was I never set up with their single friends? Well, there was one setup. But it wasn’t really my fault how that went down.
I still shudderat the thought of that ill-fated setup, except now with my cold car, my body is nearly convulsing. I might be ready for a relationship, but I was not looking for something casual. I want marriage or nothing at all—settling is not an option. The dreadful attempt of a co-worker I didn’t know to marry me off wasshortly after I started my job at the law firm. Nancy, the woman who worked next to Clark, said her nephew was single and that I was ‘just his type,’which she said with a wink. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but I was flabbergasted to be described as anyone’s type who didn’t know me because I’m quirky. I just don’t get to know people that fast and vice versa.
She showed me a picture of him. It was an action shot from his school sports days.
“He was a big-time college baseball player. He is a little older now, of course—around your age.” Nancy beamed while looking at the photo, but as hard as I looked, I couldn’t tell what he looked like.
“This probably isn’t the best picture of Jake. But I promise, he’s adorable!”
I stared at the photo some more. He was wearing a baseball helmet covering most of his face from the angle of the shot. Instantly, I’m reminded of the cute guy I met on the train when I was 18. He’d been wearing cargo shorts, sandals, a V-neck, and, most notably, a football helmet. He was quite cute under the helmet, so I decided to look past it instead of questioning thereasonssomeone might be wearing such a thing. Afraid of getting hurt? Obsession with the game? Clinical insanity? But at 18, naivety ruled, and I still shuddered at the thought I gave out my phone number to that guy.At least he never called.Who was I to judge? After all, I’d only been riding the train to go to an underground speakeasy holding a combo knitting class & intensive group therapy session to fight our aichmophobia, the fear of sharp objects. “BYO Knitting Needles,”the poster said. What could go wrong? Quite a bit, it turns out. But that’s a story for another day.
Katie’s Words of Law
Negligence
Ideas that needed more common sense than one's ability to execute.
“Can I give him your number?” Nancy asked, holding the company directoryto show me she already had it. I nodded hesitantly, aware that I was brand new to this work environment and suddenly willing to go against my nature to make a good impression. “Sure…” but I wasn’tsure,as I watched her text Jake my phone number. He texted me shortly after that and wanted to pick me up that evening for dinner. And since Nancy vetted him profusely, it was theonlytime I’d let someone pick me up at my house. Partially because my mother hadn’t let the fact that I gave out my home address to someone I didn’t know, nor would she ever let me live it down; the other reason was, well:I hadn’t had a date since.
That night, waiting for my blind date, I kept looking out my door to see if he had arrived, since I didn’t have a window overlooking the small parking area. Two neighbor ladies who often sat outside surveying the happenings were in their usual chairs. At ten after, I finally just went out there for good, locking the door behind me and heading down the stairs.
“Hello,” I called out to them, thinking it would be rude not to acknowledge them canvassing every move I made.
“Hi!” One lady enthusiastically called back.
“Are you waiting for someone?” The other woman asked.
“Yes, I have a date, actually.” I felt my cheeks blush at the thought. I didn’t mention it was a blind date, though I instantly wished I had when I saw the car pull up.
From the pages of Katie’s Dictionary:
blind date
blind dat
noun
A forced coupling of two people who haven’t met in the wild because they have nothing in common.
“Oh no,” my neighbor lady let out. I felt the same panic as I heard a high-pitchedwhirsound coming from a nearby car—one of those noisesthat generated feelings of doubt before stepping into a vehicle.
She turned to her friend and asked loudly, “Is that him?”
