Why is it that at the end of a particularly trying week-long business trip, when you and everyone you work with are all cranky and tired and just want to get the hell home already, everything that possibly could go wrong does?
And why do I have a tendency to exaggerate when things don’t go my way?
So we’re on the bus home (yes, our
cheap-ass environmentally friendly company made 400 people take chartered buses to Nashville, not even allowing us to drive ourselves unless circumstances were dire), about 125 miles north of Nashville on I-65 when it comes to our driver’s attention that we are leaking GASOLINE all over the road. So we have to pull over at a truck stop (exit 105). The bus driver hops out with a single paper towel to inspect the situation.
I, of course, burst into tears as though I were the only person on the 60-passenger bus who really really wanted to get home. Don’t you people know I’ve been counting COTTON BALLS for God’s sake? Long story short, we ended up winding through some residential neighborhoods outside Louisville, spewing gas the entire way, to get to a repair shop and, ostensibly, another bus to get on. Eventually we make it on another bus and are back on the road.
We got home 2.5 hours late, obliterating the lovely afternoon I had planned for R and I. Not that it would have mattered because she has a runny nose, sore throat and cough.
But we got to snuggle on the couch last night. Like the Grinch, my heart grew three sizes.