The universe finds me incredibly difficult to communicate with.
There are people I know, to whom the universe speaks in gentle and subtle ways – and often – very very often.
Little white feathers from mange-ridden pigeons, personalised license plates that say things like ‘URFAB’.
I don’t get that type of message from the cosmos.
I think its ineffable workings are far too subtle for the likes of me.
I’m a billboard type person – I need it in very large type, in 5 words or less, with a clear call to action.
It seems the universe is upping its game.
I arrived at work yesterday after taking 2 hours to travel 100 metres.
I got my coffee and I went out to the sunny balcony and called my mother.
Then I dropped my pen.
I squatted down (very CrossFit) to pick it up and “RRRRRrrrrrIIIIiiiiPPPPP!”.
“What was that noise?” asked my mother.
“That was my pants,” I said.
“Yes. It appears that they have split right across the front bottom all the way to the back.”
There was a moment of silence and then, “HA, HA-HA-HA” etc.
No maternal sympathy there.
“Mom. Can you bring me a pair of pants?”
“No, I’m at church.”
“Really? You’re choosing your eternal life over your only daughter’s very real hell?”
A few quiet questions led to the entire agency becoming aware of my predicament. It also turns out that despite many of us having children, we’re not very good Stepford Wives and no one had a sewing kit.
When I had a moment I stood up from my chair, covered the offending area with a large shawl and popped out to the shops.
All of the omens, signs and portents the universe was sending my way I ignored.
I should’ve gone home.
I should’ve just gone home when I reached the traffic jam that morning.
I should never have gotten out of bed.
I maneuvered my VW bus into a parking space after spending 45 minutes traveling about 2 kms, and went in search of pants.
Only, I had parked in entirely the opposite direction and had to trek for miles in shoes that were not designed for walking.
20 long minutes later I limped into the store.
I grabbed pants willy-nilly and after taking my shoes off to try them on realised that I would rather cut my feet off than put them back in the high heels of torture.
So, I bought some new shoes.
They came neatly tacked in a pair by one of those plastic tag things you can’t break.
In two different sizes.
Sorting that out took some time, but eventually I made my way back to my beloved Bella (the VW).
Entering the raging furnace that my ride had become, I wound down the window. Then the car guard came. (If you’re not South African, watch this fabulous Santam ad for an explanation of car guards.
I forked over the requisite amount of cash and prepared to drive off.
About then, the car guard was overcome by a powerful, alcohol-induced, hallucinatory attraction and decided that it would be a good idea to grab the back of my head and try to tickle my tonsils.
Needless to say, I did not react as he expected by swooning in maidenly desire. Instead, I yanked my head back and put my foot down on the accelerator so that 2 tons of VW shot forward like a cannonball from a pirate ship.
I think I may have run over his foot, about which I feel not the slightest twinge of guilt.
(When I related this story to my mother she said, “What about all that kickboxing you did? Why didn’t you DO something?” I looked at her askance and replied, “Mom. What good does kickboxing do when you’re sitting down in a car?”)
By the time I arrived back at work with my new shoes and my new pants I was ready to curl up in a foetal position under my desk and spend what short time remained of the day whimpering and sucking my thumb.
Instead, I was greeted by chaos and lunacy.
And then for some unexplainable reason I found myself waking up today, getting dressed, sitting in the traffic and coming to work in a parody of Groundhog Day without the humour of Bill Murray.
Okay, so my pants haven’t split yet, so that’s already better than yesterday, but I still wish I’d listened harder to the universe in the beginning and just stayed in bed.