Well that was an unmitigated disaster. I came in with low expectations, but this…

I definitely started it. Running behind all day – just one of those days – I left with barely enough time to make it. Then, the traffic started. Then more. I send a text to my date, apologizing, explaining I’ll be a bit late.

My phone rings while I’m slowly rolling – lightly pressing the brake, that slow – in the traffic, which of course stops short, which of course I don’t see, checking to see who’s ringing, which – I don’t need to say it at this point – causes me to give a nice love tap to the car in front of me. Barely anything – my car has no damage – but the old cheap plastic bumper of the old cheap car in front of me cracks, splatters a bit… and now it’s a scene.

The passenger comes out and shakes his head. I apologize. I give my insurance info. I give my license plate number, driver’s license number… they insist on sitting in the middle lane, honks all around, the merely-bad traffic becoming gnarled and nasty… eventually I cajole them over to a side road. They insist on getting the police to come for a report. Really? I say. This is a fender bender – you’ve got my info, we’re all set. But they are insistent.

The cop comes. He says you’ve got his info, you’re all set – we don’t do fender benders. Uh-huh, I say. Now it’s the actual time we’re supposed to meet, and I haven’t gotten out of the city.

I – feeling very conflicted – text extremely carefully while heading down there (I pull off), I’m to be unforgivably late, you get a free slap and drink when I arrive. How close are you? she asks. Turns out she’s already made dinner plans for about an hour after we were supposed to meet.

Now, I’m a little tense and annoyed already, but this irks me. A lot. Under the best of circumstances, it would take me 40 minutes there, another 40 back – and she’s slotted me in for an hour, tops, between work and dinner?

In a way, this is better. If I’d fought rush hour traffic down there, had two drinks, and had to turn back around, I’d be pissed. Better this, with me transferring that feeling to the anal-retentive bumpees, right? (UPDATE: They’re suing me for medical damages. They were both fine, but they didn’t wait a day before finding their ambulance-chaser.)

Tho it’s worth mentioning, just as she’s telling me there’s no time left for us to meet, I’m passing a massive crash going the other direction on the freeway. Looks like a detour thru the airport for me. That’s right – driving thru the airport is the fastest way home.

Two hours later, I’ve had my most expensive non-date ever. I think – depends – I haven’t gotten the bill yet.

The good news – she handles it all like a champ, is apologetic over the scheduling snafu, sympathetic about my troubles… even as my texts get slightly snarky and terse.

The bad news – well, the rest of it is bad news. Even my, uh, buddies, holding some treats for me, decided to have it themselves before I could pick it up – so the fun I hoped to pick up on the way home wasn’t around, if ya know what I’m sayin’, wink wink nudge.

Yes, I’m talking about chocolate.

Rule #41: Don’t Fight The World.

Remember how I was talking about needing a break? Well, the world decided to put an exclamation point on it. When you get a message like that – listen. Time for me to sit back and wait for a better stretch – I’m obviously meant to be celibate for a week or three. No worries – good stretches await. Fight the tide, and you tucker yourself out going nowhere.

See that? I said tucker yourself out. The world definitely wants me to have that break.