Murphy is Picking on Me

Some days I feel like Murphy is picking on me.

For example, only when the town hall-style meeting I attend is at its most crowded am I asked to participate in public displays of walking.  Of course, those are also the days when I am wearing my most clutzy of shoes, and my job is to walk among the rows of people.  (In the very back of the room, I found this job also involves climbing over some people so I can get to the door.)  Right.  I can come here for years and sit anonymously, and on this day I have to help?  Thanks, Murphy.

On the same day, when Darling Husband woke up to a sour stomach, we sit behind someone who smells a little ripe in the heat in that crowded, crowded room.  Poor man (both of them).  Thanks, Murphy, from both of us.

Even earlier on the same day, I make a decision that no one is going to pay any attention to me, so I wear pants that are really jeans, pretending to be pants.  Not only am I asked to participate, but also a random photographer wants to take my picture as I'm walking into the building.  You have to admit, there is no better way to reveal that I really am wearing thinly-disguised jeans than by taking a picture of my backside.  Thanks, Murphy.

On the other hand, that photographer may have wanted to take my picture because I was walking into a meeting holding my cell phone and my Kindle reader.  Is this a sign that I don't really plan on paying attention?  Well, maybe no.  I intend to pay attention, so long as no one goes over their alloted speaking time.  Of course, during some rare quiet moments, both of these devices go clattering to the floor and everyone turns and looks at me.  (Hey, don't bother.  The photographer took a picture on the way in.  You can see all you want and a lot I don't want right there.)  Thanks, Murphy

We planned a play date for Toddler with a cousin, for the wading pool in the front yard, and it will rain.  I'm going to keep this one short today because ... well ... it's been that kind of day. Once again, thanks, Murphy.