Maybe it’s just my imagination. Or maybe I really do need to get my aura cleansed.
That was Irina’s sardonic recommendation to cast away the various misfortunes that have been following me around lately like a personalized rain cloud. Or, in her more succinct evaluation: to become less of a schlimazel.
It definitely feels like the universe has been having a cosmic giggle at my expense these days.
Half the time when I order take-out, they give me the wrong food… A perfectly healthy plant only has a 50-50 chance of life expectancy under my care… Despite maintaining the same clothes sizes for over 20 years, I somehow invariably buy shirts in medium instead of large…
Why? It makes no sense.
As I sit behind the wheel of my cab, stranded on Maritime Street at West Grand and waiting for the tow truck to arrive, I can’t help but contemplate my propensity for misfortune.
After all, it was my rotten luck to end up in a taxi without a spare tire in the trunk. Road flares? Check. Lug wrench? Got it. Donut?
Uhhh… Nope.
Even worse, I’m out of cigarettes. And way too un-caffeinated to deal with this predicament.
I Drive S.F. 