Chance, Luck, Shoes, and Another Planner

So far, a not-so-good day. Nothing absolutely tragic, but I’m running into more pitfalls today than usual.

After work, which was full of my boss’s chatter and simultaneous scolds for standing around and not being productive, I examined my left foot and decided that the heel scar that my new jellies has left was sufficiently healed so as to try another run of breaking them in. I grabbed some lunch, slathered on sunscreen, put on my lampshade hat, and decided to go to my local Staples and buy a new planner. The one I have goes through the end of August, as it’s an academic planner. Before I left, I noticed that the scar had already started smearing red everywhere. I’ve been battling these shoes for weeks and decided to suck it up and slap a band-aid on that sucker.

The band-aid worked until I got to the intersection before my bus stop. I noticed that I was limping. My shoe had pushed the band-aid up and eased it off to create this weird-looking wrinkly thing–with a white box in the middle– hanging off my ankle. I took off my shoe, re-applied the wrinkly thing, and traversed the black ground.

By the time I got to Staples, which wasn’t that far, the stickiness had worn off and I had to stop every few feet to battle the wrinkly thing out of finding new wrinkles. And when I got there, I asked an odd question:

“Do you carry band-aids?”

Yes, Staples does carry band-aids. But out of all their planners, they didn’t have one I liked. Plenty in the size I like, but they had some that started in December and ones that had the right date but had ugly covers. None in the right combination. So I bought the band-aids, slapped one on, told myself I’d buy what I came for online, and walked through the jigungous parking lot. (That word is something I really say; one of my siblings made it up. It combines giant and humongous, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s a real word)

Halfway through the parking lot, my new band-aid bunched up. I slapped another one on top of the first, trying a new approach by seeing if its location or maybe the shape of my foot is affecting the shoe’s conflict with peach-colored stuff. When I got to another intersection, I felt pain again. The heat just isn’t effective at keeping sticky things on sweaty skin. I scowled at the huge box of band-aids in my bag, tossed both used wrinkly things in a trash can, and waited for the bus.

I had a pleasant ride home and a pleasant transfer. I just took my shoes off and walked in bare feet from tree shade to tree shade. But when I got online and started shopping for my little black book, I found a few perfect ones. They all look like planners I’ve had in the past, which is fine, and I ordered one. Only to find out that it’s offered in four colors, none of them being black, and I don’t get to pick which one I want. There’s no comment box and no drop-down menu anywhere!

I realize the warning was right on the product page, but I– I– I got mixed up. Yeah. I’d looked at so many planners on so many websites, I just got excited about the color offerings and the right size and dates. And another website said I could comment somewhere about which color I wanted, and I thought this was the site I was buying from!

So, after imagining big, unknown hands plucking a gold-colored planner–blech–out of a brown box and tossing it in my envelope, I did what every annoyed and bordering-irate internet shopper does: I responded to the automatic Email that says on the bottom that they Strive for A Satisfactory Customer Experience Every Time. And then I realized that I was mean in my Email; it’ll get sent to one of five Customer Service Reps who will groan when she reads it and will skip it for another, more pleasant Email. So I impulsively click on the LiveChat on their Contact Us page and politely suggest to Amy–after shooting her down– that they include a color-selection drop-down menu on that particular product site for me when I buy it again in a year and a half.

Then I checked with her to make sure she’s not the customer service rep who handles the emails. Not on busy days. Like today. The day when I have to rely on chance and luck.