Scarlett O’Hara is not beautiful begins Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind.
It’s a great first line. (And if you’d like to read more than the first line, join my online book club!)
But if Margaret Mitchell were writing the first line of the book about my life, it would probably be something like:
Mandy Crow was not cool. Not one little bit. Grace wasn’t one of her defining characteristics either, but that’s a story for another time.
And then the book might go on to talk about all the randomly not-cool things I’ve done, from awkward post-house concert conversations to nearly throwing up on the table on a date to falling down—a lot.
And then maybe the writer would launch into the tale of last night. The writer might start out with how I finally left work before 5 p.m. for the first time in a long time. How I was in a pretty bad mood and starting to throw myself a pity party for one. How I went to the gym and changed clothes and got mad at the lady in the locker room just for moving too slowly and taking up too much space. How I went upstairs, hopped on the treadmill, and started a 3 mile run. And walked for three minutes, then ran for four more before realizing I’d never started my Nike+ workout. How I finished the workout, gathered my stuff, and went home to walk the dog, feed the dog, and eat a dinner of leftover pizza and raw carrots and cucumbers. How I cleaned around the house, started some laundry, and went to get my clothes from the gym bag.
Which was when I discovered that my new cardigan sweater was missing. Not in my bag. Not in my car. Not on the ground outside my car. So it must be at the gym.
Seeing that I just bought the sweater and really, really like it. I hopped in the car (with the dog) and drove the few miles to the YMCA near my house where I had worked out earlier. And shuffled inside and asked the girl at the desk if anyone had happened to turn in a sweater. And someone had. BECAUSE THEY FOUND IT ON THE PARKING LOT.
Seriously! Can’t I keep up with my belongings better than that?
But it really didn’t matter. I was just happy to have my sweater back. So back out into the night I went, using the keyless entry to unlock the car. And then, as I got in and was talking out loud to my dog like she was a person, I somehow hit the panic button on my car.
So there Muffin and I sat in the parking lot of the Y. Me clutching my recovered sweater and her looking around confused, wondering what in the world was causing all that noise.
Yeah. I’m cool.
I don’t call attention to myself at all. Ever.
Maybe today will go better?