After I wrote yesterday's post, about taking my snazzy shoes to Peterborough, I ended up today having to spend the day in bed. I was really disappointed about it---the Pride Brunch and parade had been in my calendar since the end of May. I guess I was tempting those beings who keep us from getting too excited, too self-righteous or too shoe-proud.
When I was younger, I remember calling in to work, claiming I was sick, when I really wanted to sparkle up my apartment before my parents came. They called to say they couldn't make it after all; I said the right things but took out my frustration by kicking the kitchen floorboard and the long fork fell off the wall thingy where it was hanging and put a long scrape along my leg. I know I deserved it, but I hated having to hobble in to work the next day, make a connection between "being sick" and having a huge bandage on my calf, while accepting everyone's sympathy.
And that's just the oldest of the many stories I could tell about how I always got what I deserved.