There are mornings when the universe gently tests you.
And then there are mornings when the universe wakes up, cracks its knuckles and says, “You know what would be hilarious?”
For Rachel, that morning began at 7:14am, when she woke up feeling suspiciously refreshed.
This should have concerned her immediately.
Rachel was not a naturally refreshed person. She was the sort of person who required an alarm, a backup alarm and several minutes of staring angrily at the ceiling before accepting that society expected her to participate again.
She rolled over.
Her alarm clock was dark.
Her phone was dead.
Her meeting started at eight.
“Fantastic.”
She launched herself out of bed with the grace of a startled moose and immediately stepped on the belt she’d left on the floor the night before.
The belt buckle attacked.
Rachel stumbled forward, grabbed the dresser for support and knocked over a glass of water.
The water landed directly on the clean pants she’d planned to wear.
Of course it did.
It wasn’t going to land on the floor like some kind of amateur disaster.
She grabbed another pair of pants, threw on a shirt and ran toward the kitchen.
Coffee.
Everything would be fine once there was coffee.
This was a lie, but it was an important lie.
Rachel filled the coffee maker, hit the button and ran to the bathroom while it brewed.
Three minutes later, she returned to discover coffee spreading across the counter.
She had forgotten to put the pot underneath.
The coffee maker had apparently decided that if Rachel wasn’t going to get her life together, it would simply pour her breakfast directly onto the cabinetry.
“No problem,” Rachel whispered.
This was the first sign she’d become delusional.
She cleaned up the coffee, made another pot and poured herself a travel mug.
Then she couldn’t find her keys.
She checked the counter.
Her purse.
Her coat.
The bathroom.
The refrigerator.
Yes, the refrigerator.
At this point, nothing was beneath suspicion.
She finally found them.
In her hand.
Excellent.
Rachel ran outside, climbed into her car and backed out of the driveway.
A horrible scraping noise came from behind her.
She froze.
She had forgotten the garbage bin.
The garbage bin had not forgotten her.
It was now lying dramatically in the street surrounded by yogurt containers, junk mail and one extremely judgmental banana peel.
Rachel got out, collected everything while her neighbour watched from his porch.
“Morning!” he called.
Rachel held up the banana peel.
“Living the dream, Gary.”
Back in the car, she checked the time.
7:46.
Fourteen minutes.
Her office was fifteen minutes away.
Technically possible if the laws of physics were willing to negotiate.
They were not.
Three blocks later, traffic stopped.
Rachel stared through the windshield.
Construction.
Naturally.
A worker slowly rotated a STOP sign toward her.
Rachel looked at him.
He looked at Rachel.
She considered explaining that she was experiencing a personal emergency involving poor planning and an aggressive garbage bin.
He did not appear interested.
Eventually, traffic moved.
Rachel arrived at work at 8:07, parked, grabbed her bag and sprinted toward the building.
Halfway across the parking lot, the bottom of the bag ripped open.
Everything fell out.
Notebook.
Wallet.
Hairbrush.
Pens.
Phone charger.
A granola bar she’d been carrying since approximately the Obama administration.
And one tampon, which rolled magnificently across the pavement and stopped beside the shoe of the company’s regional manager.
He looked down.
Rachel looked down.
They looked at each other.
“Morning, Rachel.”
“Apparently.”
She stuffed everything into her arms and hurried inside.
The elevator doors were closing.
“WAIT!”
A hand appeared and stopped them.
Finally.
A victory.
Rachel rushed inside.
“Thank you.”
The elevator went up two floors.
Then stopped.
The lights flickered.
Nobody spoke.
Rachel stared at the ceiling.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
The man beside her slowly pressed the emergency button.
They remained trapped for eleven minutes.
When the doors finally opened, Rachel ran toward the conference room.
She burst through the door at 8:23, sweaty, dishevelled and clutching her belongings against her chest like she’d just escaped a minor natural disaster.
“I’m SO sorry I’m late!”
Eight people stared at her.
Her boss blinked.
“Late for what?”
“The meeting.”
“What meeting?”
Rachel stopped.
“The eight o’clock meeting.”
Her boss frowned.
Then realization appeared on his face.
“Oh! That’s tomorrow.”
Silence.
Rachel stood there.
Twenty-three minutes late.
For tomorrow.
Her boss looked at her mismatched socks.
The regional manager looked at the tampon still sticking out of the top of her notebook.
Someone quietly slid a box of tissues toward her.
Rachel lowered herself into the nearest chair.
“So just to clarify,” she said, “I have survived a dead phone, wet pants, a countertop coffee flood, an attempted murder by belt buckle, a hit-and-run involving my own garbage bin, construction, public tampon humiliation and eleven minutes of elevator captivity…”
Everyone waited.
“…for a meeting that does not exist today?”
Her boss nodded.
Rachel considered this information.
Then she stood.
“Wonderful.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Rachel, it’s only 8:25.”
She turned around.
“I’ve already put in a full day emotionally.”
And with that, she walked out.
She stopped at a coffee shop on the way home and ordered the largest coffee they sold.
The cashier handed it to her.
Rachel took one glorious sip.
Then looked down.
It was tea.
She stared at the cup for several seconds.
And started laughing.
Not a cute laugh.
Not a normal laugh.
The slightly unhinged laughter of a woman who had finally understood that resistance was futile.
The cashier looked concerned.
“Ma’am, are you okay?”
Rachel wiped away a tear.
“Oh, absolutely.”
She raised the tea in a small toast.
“Apparently I’m having tomorrow’s coffee.”
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