I had a very frustrating 48 hours this week. The body shop repairing the sexy crowbar skid marks left on my car from being broken into on Halloween was not up to my customer service standards. The whole mess snowballed into me yelling at a 70-year-old in coke-bottle glasses, stealing my car from the body shop, driving home on a leaky tire and ending my day wailing on the floor of my apartment two bottles of wine in. Day two predictably started with me driving on a flat tire until it smoked and then spent $600 on a new set of tires and being without wheels yet again.
(Day three was spent apologizing to the old man at the body shop and returning the car, only for them to perform a completely mediocre job on it, but that's not the point here.)
Worst 48 hours this year, I thought.
Then I remembered the 48 hours in February in which I was laid off and then immediately found out I needed surgery because the chance was likely that I had cancer. That 48 hours kicks this 48 hours' ass.
I picked myself off the floor and wiped my nose. Dug some ice out of the freezer for my swollen eyes. At least I have my job and am cancer-free, I told myself.
And you know what? I didn't feel a bit better.
