Running Late

Ever had one of those mornings when, for the life of you, you just can't get your act together? The moments are leaping and galloping toward "Departure Time" and you're sloughing around in the closet looking for just that right top for your jeans, helpless to move any faster than the proverbial molasses in a blizzard?

Well, have you ever thought maybe those moments are being sent to you by your angels? That perhaps you aren't being allowed to leave your house on time? That maybe your life is being saved?

One morning back when I lived in Roseville I had one of those mornings. One frantic eye on the clock, the other viewing myself in the mirror over the dresser, hating the outfit I now had on, the third or fourth one so far in the last five minutes, I stripped to my underwear and tossed that pair of jeans onto the growing pile of discarded clothing on top of my bed with a sense of total helplessness to move forward.

I have a horror of being late for work. I was fired from my first real job at (the former) Crocker Anglo bank for being late to work. It was 1960 and I was fresh out of high school, I had no idea the consequences one paid for tardiness in the real world. It was a lesson I never forgot, and so, in my world, being late for work is not an option.

Yet here I was, moving around my bedroom as if my feet were mired in wet cement, all clothing combinations so far inciting loathing and disgust. Running out of options, I watched the hands of the clock moving ever closer to the moment when if I did not exit the house I was going to be LATE, and still for the life of me, I could not move any faster.

Keys were dropped, lipstick was missing, parking change was non-existent and had to be extracted from the bottoms of various pockets and purses. Tick, tick, I was now five minutes past launch time and STILL could not move any faster. Was someone holding me by the ankles? It sure felt like it. Finally, I broke free of the house and was on my way, zipping down I-80 to Sacramento.

Not zipping for long though. Traffic was slower than usual as I got closer to the Marconi split, a place notorious for holding up the morning commute. As traffic crawled along, it gradually became apparent what the hold- up was. There, in the slow lane just at the split where the road curves off to the left, a lumber truck had spilled its load. Two by fours closed one entire lane. As I inched past the pile of lumber in the road it occurred to me that the accident must have just happened. There were no CHP cars at the scene, so the accident had to be less than 10 minutes old.

Good grief! In a flash I knew, had I left my house when I normally did, I would have been right beside this truck when the load shifted and spilled into the road. Had I left my house when I normally did I'd be under that pile of lumber.

I though about the discarded clothes still lying on top of my bed, about the way I just could not move any faster, how everything seemed to conspire to keep me at home past my leaving time. It was a real revelation.

Now, if I'm having a difficult time getting myself out and about, I think back to that morning and I just slow down and go with the flow. There are reasons beyond my knowing and just because I might not bear witness to the incident I’m missing, I have faith that I’m being detained for my own good.