So, I've been a tad distracted lately. The whole last month has been one great big attentional blink.
I've always prided myself on working best under pressure. My most successful semesters in college were the ones when I took a full load and worked part time. My most productive times at work are the times when I've got at least twelve different projects underway. So it would seem that when the world as I knew it turned all wobbly, I would naturally assume the position of madame get-er-done, tackling tasks both administrative and medically urgent with the speed and acumen of a cheetah or a cougar or a minx or whichever feline creature is known for doing things well, and fast.
But instead of that, I've become a bumbling idiot! I am not a minx. I am Garfield.
Exhibit A: It pains me to tell you this. On Wednesday, I took my son to a much anticipated yet ultimately quite sucky Physical Therapy evaluation . We were running late, as per usual. I now have a disabled placard for parking, so when we arrived at the parking structure, I drove around to those generally elusive spaces right next to the automatic door to seek a space. They were full. Note to the universe: it's hard to find handicapped parking at a hospital or medical center. So I drove around to the next level, sure that I'd find a spot near those automatic doors. Nope. But it was a small garage with a tight loop up to the next level, so I kept going up. It's one of those places with entrances on several levels, and I was impressed that despite our perpetual circling, we continued to pass by driveways that led to street level. Man, there were a lot of levels in that place! My boy finally asked why we were driving around in circles, and I explained that although it seemed as if we were circling like idiot lunatics, we were actually going to a different level with each revolution. Then he asked: "so why do we keep passing the same cars?"
Exhibit B: On Thursday morning, I was tired and emotional and hadn't slept well. The one and only motivation that I could muster in order to drag my sorry arse out of bed was that sweetest nectar of the gods, coffee. My husband had gone off early for a meeting that day, so I brewed a pot for one, and shimmied to the soothing sounds of its gargles and sputters. When the beep indicated a ready mix, I warmed my milk and happily turned to grab a cup.
It's really much tastier when you put coffee in it.
Please, people, tell me I'm not alone. What bonehead moves do you have to confess on this fair Friday?