Putting It All In Perspective

I did something stupid last weekend. Sounds like the beginning of a teen pregnancy story, but no, all I did was leave my bag in the car.

After a lovely visit with some dear friends, I skipped down the driveway to where my car was parked on the street of their residential neighborhood. I stopped in my tracks when I saw the broken safety glass spread out on the passenger seat. If I would have been carrying my bag I would have dropped it in shock.
The Goldfinches!
I thought of the bird feeder Jenny proudly pointed out as we walked up to the house just a couple hours earlier, it had been covered in adorable little Goldfinches munching on bird seed. One of them must have flown into my car window and was surely bleeding to death somewhere near by.
Oh, poor bird, Jenny is going to be heart-broken.
Didn’t I leave my bag there?
Hmm, where’s my bag?
Could a fatally injured Goldfinch carry a medium-sized messenger bag?
Wait for it.
Hey…someone broke into my car!

I jogged back up the house, shaking more than was probably appropriate, and breathlessly told my friends what had happened. Jenny calmly called the police. Mark and Gaye and I walked around outside to see if the 13 year-old who had broken into my car on a dare had dropped the bag in a bush or behind a fence. No such luck. Jenny and I exchanged some jokes about insurance fraud and semen samples being left at the scene of the crime. Gaye commented on how well I was handling the whole situation and I smiled appreciatively. Yeah, I was handling it really well.

I winded my way up and then down Laurel Canyon, making a mental list of everything that I had I the bag:
Wallet with ID and a couple credit cards, only had seven dollars in cash though. That should piss off the middle-aged heroin addict who broke into my car.
Phone – it was a piece of crap and I needed a new one.
Blackberry – it was work’s not mine so, oh well.
Organizer with calendar and the credit cards I never use and Christmas gift cards. Grrr, I was going to get a new comforter with that Macy’s card.
iPod – shoot, why do I carry all this stuff around with me?
Eye drops – dammit, eye drops are expensive.
Makeup bag – sigh, I really liked some of that stuff but I probably won’t replace it.

I started to choke up when I unlocked the front door. Eric would see my face and rush to me and I would burst to tears in his arms as I detailed the events in between sobs. But the living room was empty, and I could just make out the sound of his shower running in the back of the apartment. I didn’t have the heart to be melodramatic on my own so I sat down and started making my calls. The police and my bank and my credit cards and the DMV and the credit bureaus. And that was that.

“It’s so invasive, it’s like being raped!” a coworker exclaimed when I told her about the break-in. Um, really? Like being raped? Golly, I really don’t think so. It sucks, sure, but you have to be able to keep it all in perspective. Insurance is going to take care of most of the stolen items. I squirrel money away in secret hiding spots like an old woman, so I’m fine until I get my debit card replaced. No one was hurt; it’s all just “stuff” and if the homeless single mother who broke into my car was able to sell my iPod for some food for her kids then by all means, let her have it. In the grand scheme of things, I’m one lucky lady and I often forget that.

Twenty four hours later I waited in a cramped Starbucks for my drink only to have the barista call out the wrong order with my name. I really thought I was going to punch someone or at the very least start crying. How in the hell does “vanilla latte” sound anything like “mocha?!” And what’s with the eye-roll when I ask for a replacement drink?! “Forget it, I’ll just take the mocha,” and I forced my way out of the store past a woman in a stupid sequined headband. I walked home seething, grinding my teeth. I had to hop out of the way when an SUV jumped a stop sign and some of the mocha that I didn’t order spilled on my favorite scarf which is dry-clean only. I’ll never take it to get dry-cleaned because I’m too cheap and lazy. WHY ME?!? I screamed out of frustration and anger and an overwhelming sense of injustice. I was the crazy lady screaming for no reason on the street.

Maybe I’m not so good at keeping it all in perspective after all.