Sprung At Last

Here’s a tip: If you have plans to see someone you are anxious to see, texting them beforehand will not speed the meeting’s arrival.

I pull myself together after saying a silent prayer for the injured dog,  and I get ready to go. The process is slowed down by texts with traffic updates; I let him know I’m running late.

I’m finally in the car and text: I’m on my way.

He’s already there and texts that. He texts me where he’s sitting at the bar. He texts me where he found free parking nearby. He texts me they have a great wine list. He texts me that he ordered beer anyway. He texts me to ask if he should order a drink so that it’s waiting for me.

This is all very nice, but it’s illegal to text while driving in this state, so I’m not even replying except for the occasional “k” when I’m at a stoplight.

I hit downtown, close to where we’re meeting, and try to find his text about the parking. I think I’m following the directions, and find myself passing the bar, circling the block, and then sent off in the opposite direction of where I want to be. I’m in the center of town, where all the traffic is.

Also, it’s snowing. Except it isn’t snowing. It’s not cold enough for snow.

I’m stopped in motionless traffic now, looking at fake snow swirling around my car. So is everyone else, so it’s impossible to do anything else.

Then I hear the thump of music: Loud, rockin’ Christmas music being blasted into the street. There are holiday lights everywhere, and big displays on the sidewalks on which guys dressed as Nutcrackers are dancing enthusiastically. In the swirling fake snow.

Throngs of pedestrians gather to watch the spectacle.

I drive further and further away from my destination. It’s the only way the traffic will let me go.

It’s December and holiday social madness has hit my calendar: This year, I decided not to decline a single invitation. My social circle needs widening. I’m booked up on all the weekend evenings and most of the days, too.  So, The Alum and I agree to meet at a wine bar on a Tuesday evening.

I feel a bit odd but I remind myself, it’s just a glass of wine. Not to mention, I need the dating practice. The match.com guys didn’t feel like practice. They felt   like auditions for a reality show.

Tuesday evening arrives and I’m rushing around after work: Rush to school to pick up The Child, feed her, feed The Dog, get ready. Text message arrive: he’s running early, there’s no bridge traffic like he expected.

I hear a screech and a thump outside my window. There’s a line of cars in the dark and drizzle, and at the front, a golden retriever struggling to get up. The owner is there, and someone I assume is the driver talking to him. I can’t hear them, but I can see, it’s frantic.

I do hear the yelp of pain as the dog is picked up; the driver helps them into his car and they drive off.

The Child comes in; she heard it too. What happened? she wants to know.

I don’t want to tell her, but I do. There’s nothing we can do, I tell her, except hope he’s okay. Then I start to lecture her about sidewalk safety.

She tells me to please get dressed and go out. She already knows this stuff, she says.

I want to stay home.

I want to wrap her and The Dog both in bubble wrap.

But I keep going.