Threefold Anticlimax

1) On Friday, I made quite the connection at work - with the linoleum, that is. While rounding a corner, I stepped squarely into a puddle of melting ice and tumbled, limbs flailing, upon the unforgiving tile. Fortunately for me, no one was around, so I clambered gingerly to my feet and limped toward my classroom, gauging the slowly-receding throbbing in my, er, let's call it the region of the very low back. I thought the level of pain virtually guaranteed a spectacular bruise. I mean, I bruise easily - there's a thumbprint-sized yellowing grey-brown speckle on my left bicep at the moment for which I cannot recall a source - and I've had two outstanding falling-down bruise experiences in the past three years, so I figured my prediction of a reddish-purple splotch was pretty accurate.

It's been three days, and all I have to show for my effort is an infinitesimal pale blue polka dot and the hint of an ache.

2) On Sunday, I planned to meet someone new - the housemate, you know. I didn't ever have a chance to talk to J before she decided to rent a room in our house; Ali showed her around one day when I was at work, and did all the corresponding after that because J knew who she was. She moved in on Friday, but I needed to go out of town for the weekend and left for SE directly from work. I thought I would get a chance to say hello on Sunday night; it only seemed fitting that I speak to my new roommate within a couple days of her moving in. By the time I got back to the house, though, J was asleep. We also missed each other this morning; I heard her close the front door while I was washing my face in the bathroom across the hall from her bedroom.

Despite living in the same house for seventy-two hours, I have yet to see the person who sleeps downstairs.

3) On Monday, I decided things were moving a bit too quickly - in the car, of course. Bessie is in the shop again, so I drove Michal's Prius to class this evening. Heading home, I entered the freeway and immediately merged across three (completely vacant) lanes. This task successfully completed, I turned my attention back to the road ahead and noticed something strange about the huge blue numbers that comprise the digital speedometer readout: three digits were present, instead of the typical two. 1. 0. 4. "Holy catfish!" I exclaimed, promptly hitting the brake. Mrs. Periwinkle obliged, descending to ninety, then eighty... but something felt amiss. "Surely this is not what it feels like to go eighty miles an hour," I thought oh-so-intelligently.

As I scoured the car for clues, the problem became clear: I had somehow pushed the button that changed my gauge readouts from standard to metric.