THE SONIC BOOMER
Last week was “No Week.” Whatever I asked, whatever I proposed, the answer was always no.
Yet the realization that it was only a week, the compartmentalization of that week into its bin alongside 51 other good weeks, and my downright determination to not let “No Week” seep into the other weeks’ bins pulled me through. That, together with a healthy supply of chocolate.
I’m vigilant with my bad weeks because one bad week will define your life if you let it. I’m the type of person who could easily fall into the trap of “they’re against me,” “they’re out to get me,” “they don’t like me,” and so on. That kind of persecution has only actually happened to me once in my life, and I quit that job.
Generally speaking, life is good.
Until a “No Week” sneaks in.
My week began at the license plate place, where I was told I couldn’t get a plate for my new car because first I needed a sheriff’s deputy to verify the VIN number on the windshield.
“Does it need to be a sheriff’s deputy?” I asked the license plate powers that be.
“Any police officer,” they replied.
So I went to the police station, where I was told no, it needed to be sheriff’s deputy. They handed me an address. Siri took me to the address, but it was in the wrong city. (We have a love/hate relationship, Siri and I.) When I finally found the correct address, I was told, “No, we don’t do that here.” I got another address. Siri started leading me out of town again, but I resisted. I believe I yelled “No!” into my dashboard.
I finally found myself at the DMV with the witchiest of witches at the helm.
“Hello,” I said.
“What do you want?” she snapped in reply.
(One is tempted to go off on a rail about civil servants, and my tax dollars paying her salary, but if you ever want to be waited on at the DMV, it is best you take on all the qualities of a beaten dog, so that’s what I did.)
Without making eye contact, I quickly and concisely explained what I wanted, and immediately sat down in the very chair she pointed to. Eventually, she sent over a sheriff’s deputy. He took my keys, went out to my car and came back with another great big no.
“We’ve got a problem,” he began.
That statement is never good coming from an officer of the law. “Your windshield slipped down over the VIN number,” he explained.
“The dealer replaced the windshield,” I noted.
“It slipped. You drive around like that and get stopped, your car is going to be impounded,” he said.
“I’m just trying to get a license plate before the paper tag expires,” I whined. “Can you extend the life of the paper tag?”
“No,” was the reply.
I took back my key, climbed into my illegal vehicle and drove away. Long story short, that day was followed by four more days of consistent and unrelenting no. Did the dealer fix the windshield? No. Was I able to expose the VIN number? No. Did I get my license plate? No.
But next week is another week. In the meantime, there’s chocolate.
