It wasn’t really one of those days. The day itself was good. It was just one of those afternoons and evenings. Tzippy was supposed to leave Lakewood at 2:30 and arrive around 4 so we could shop for a friend’s shower. At 6:45 I wanted to rush off to a book signing in Boro Park, picking up a friend along the way at 7. Then I had to leave after around 15 minutes to speed to karate all the way in farthest Flatbush. It was tight, but if everything went smoothly, it could work.

After 21 years of life, I still harbor the naïve belief that plans tend to go smoothly. It’s a crippling habit I have to work on eradicating.

Anyway, things started going wrong at 4 pm. I had spent the day working on the dancing dolls, but at 4 I ran out of duct tape and had to stop. Tzippy hadn’t even called yet.

So I called her.

She said she was still on the Staten Island Parking Lot and she’d give me a ring when she was in the neighborhood.

I had nothing much to do, so I went to find a snack, check my email, read some blogs, etc. I should have just curled up with a book.

My mother decided that she needed some takeout side dishes to supplement dinner, so she told me to pick some up when I went shopping. No problem. No problem except that by 5:00 Tzippy was still stuck in traffic, this time in good ol’ Brooklyn. She said there were accidents all over and traffic was abysmal. By the time we finally left – 5:30 – we had exactly 45 minutes to do our shopping, pick up dinner, and get home.

Target was terrible. It’s a small store on Flatbush Avenue, and the selection was approximately zero. Just so you know.

While we were ringing up the purchase, Tzippy went to bring the car around. Theoretically, this should have saved us time. This being one of those days, it didn’t.

But first thing first: I had a lot of fun carrying all those bags and boxes from the cash register to Flatbush Avenue. I put two bags in the bucket and balanced the mop and broom between my fingers and shoulder, then grabbed the other three bags in my other hand, tucked my chin over the sliding broom handle, and, completely tangled up like this, gaped helplessly at the food processor box.

I put everything down and started again.

The cashier looked on in idle curiosity.

I picked up the box first and balanced it against one hip, carefully bent over to pick up the bucket with the other hand, and then grabbed the rest of the bags with individual fingers from the box-holding hand. Oh wait – the broom and mop. What about them?

I put everything down again.

“You can take the wagon out,” the cashier said. A good point, except we hadn’t parked in the garage and I really needed to get everything down the escalator. But I piled everything into the cart and rolled it to the escalator. It was easier from there.

I pushed the food processor box onto the escalator and then picked up everything else, ran down ahead of the box, put the stuff down, and then scooped the box off the escalator as it rode down. The people behind me cheered.

I picked up all the bags and broom and mop and used my foot to push the box across the carpeting to the door. A kind patron held the door for me. I shifted the mop and broom to my elbow, steadied them with my chin, bent over to give the box a bear hug, and staggered out to the street, bent like a little old lady. Tzippy was nowhere to be seen, and it was raining.

Did I mention it was one of those afternoons?

I waited about five minutes. Because of the way the streets worked and traffic rerouted, she had to drive halfway home before she could turn around and come back up Flatbush Avenue.

Great.

We sped to E. 13th and J where I ran into Glatt Zone, pointed at 3 random items, and told him to give me a pound and a half of each. I almost danced in agony as he tooks his time bagging each container and tucking it neatly into a shopping bag. I grabbed it and ran out. Then I decided to be really rude, and left Tzippy to carry the stuff in while I leaped into my parents’ car and zoomed off to Boro Park.

Turns out my passenger was behind schedule too. I had called from Tzippy’s phone post-takeout and she said she was in middle of giving a kid a bath. Not having a cell phone of my own, I parked by a hydrant and went to the address I’d been given and tried to figure out which door of the two-family house was hers. I put my ear against one – there was classical music playing. I put my ear against the other – some kid jabbered loudly. I rang the doorbell, asked for Chav, and waited on the fence.

We were only about 10 minutes behind schedule by then. Not so bad. We even found parking on 50th Street. A big empty spot right behind a driveway. Great. I lined up my minivan and started backing in.

There’s honking, but this is Boro Park. There’s always honking. So I didn’t even pay attention until Chav said “Um” and I turned and saw that my passenger door was wedged against the driver’s door of some idiot who tried driving past me on a narrow street. I straightened out and pulled over. He straightened out and parks about 2/3 into the street. He shows me a teeny scratch on his already dented mirror and then rubs three layers of dirt off his driver door to show me the three-inch rub I’d made. I couldn’t believe he really asked for my number. I knew I should have taken a photo, but didn’t have a camera. I should have gotten his contact info too, but didn’t have anything to write it on. There were a lot of things I should have done, but a bus that had easily driven past my van but was honking at his car for being in middle of the street. And I was behind schedule again.

Yeah, it was that kind of afternoon. Hit the curb while parking, then straightened out and was so distracted I parked in front of the driveway, had to turn the engine back on and back up… just minor annoyances, but they didn’t enhance the evening.

We dashed to Eichlers, got our books, said our hellos, and dashed back. I sped to karate, but there was a fire on Ocean Avenue, and I had to reroute. Traffic hadn’t improved much. Found parking a few blocks away, dashed in 10 minutes late. “It’s been one of those days,” I called apologetically as I ran past the class. They were just starting, though, because the instructor had been having that kind of day too. Her regular babysitter couldn’t come and her stand-in was having trouble with the baby.

I ran into the changing room and jumped into my gi. Then I ran out and joined the runners. “Um… psst,” the instructor hissed as I passed. I looked up.

“Your belt,” she said.

Sigh!

I jogged back and found my belt.

Things improved from there, though. All the worries of insurance claims and work left undone dissolved as we worked out the best defense against elbow jabs and then applied the same dynamics to a defense against a shoulder grab from behind. I was feeling great by the time I changed back into street clothes, and we all chattered as we put on our shoes after. I said good night and walked out, feeling that something wasn’t right…

“You left your bag!” the instructor called.

I went back in to retrieve it.

“I guess it’s still one of those days,” I grinned. She laughed and started closing the shutter, and then realized she hadn’t turned off the light inside.

“It’s still one of those days for me too,” she said ruefully.

We laughed together, and “that type of day” didn’t seem so bad anymore as we wished each other good night.

Driving home, I grappled with the problem of what to tell my father about the car. On the one hand, nothing might come of it that I couldn’t handle myself. Also, he gets pretty overwrought when we do something stupid, or do something to his car, or do something that costs a heckuvalot of money. I’d potentially done all three, so he was not going to be happy. In fact, he was going to lecture me about proper protocol when in an accident and make me recite back the lesson, and basically rub my nerves raw. It would be a perfect finale to a rotten evening. Then again, he would tell me exactly what to do in case of an accident so I would never do anything dumb and costly with any car again.

I decided it was middos-building time. I would confess my sin, eat crow, stay calm, and come out wiser and morally the better for it.

It was as bad as I imagined. I had to write down what I should give and what I should get at the scene of any accident, and then read them back, and then recite them from memory. “This is good for you,” I kept telling myself. “Better learn this now then the hard way.” I stayed totally cool, but finally, I had to make my point. “All this vast knowledge of how to deal with a vehicle run-in,” I asked, “How many accidents did it take you to amass it all?”

He looked sheepish and smiled as he answered, “More than I’d like to admit.” But he got my point. We parted on good terms, and I was quite proud of myself.

Then I went to sleep, which is the best ending to any day, in my opinion.