Not My Favorite Thursday

Written by someone who should’ve stayed in bed.

I knew it was one of those days when my truck wouldn’t start until the third turn of the key, and even then, it coughed like a smoker at a prayer meeting. I finally got the truck to rumble awake, but once at work, I realized I’d forgotten my key card—the one thing that gets me into the building since they installed that fancy “electroconic” system last month.

That’s what the tech guy called it. I reckon he meant “electronic,” but who am I to judge?

So, I circled back home, grumbling words you don’t say in front of a Sunday school teacher, only to run straight into a construction zone with more orange cones than a high school marching band’s got brass. By the time I finally got home, retrieved the card, and recalculated how long it’d take to play the detour hokey pokey again, I knew I’d missed my whole air shift.

I called the boss, who took it surprisingly well—said she’d had worse days.

The storm two nights ago had come through like a drunk uncle at a wedding—loud, messy, and leaving behind a trail of trouble. The east side of the fence had blown down, exposing my backyard to the neighbor’s demon doggos, who bark at birds, clouds, and once, I swear, a plastic bag for twenty straight minutes.

Still, I figured I’d take a crack at fixing it. After all, how hard could it be?

On the third swing of the hammer, I missed the nail entirely and introduced my left thumb to the raw, righteous power of human error. I’ve never seen a color quite like that purple. It’s the shade of royalty—if royalty screamed profanities and danced around holding its hand like it was on fire.

While hopping and cursing, I dropped a full pressboard on my right foot, just above the toes, missing the steel toe by this much. A place the body doesn’t protect well.

Nature, it turns out, never expected us to be that dumb.

Then came the dogs. I forgot they had the run of their yard again. As soon as I leaned toward the fence line, they shot out like furry rockets, like I owed them money. I stood there, one hand cradling a swollen thumb, one foot throbbing like a cartoon anvil had landed on it, staring down two canines who were enjoying my suffering.

It wasn’t even eleven yet.

So, I limped inside, poured a modest bourbon—doctor’s orders, probably—and sank into the recliner. My dogs jumped up, looked me over like a disappointed mother, and settled on the side of my good foot. They figured I’d earned it.

Life’s like that at times. Some Thursdays are just a series of misfires, dropped boards, and unfriendly dogs, but you get through them.

You patch the fence, ice the thumb, and remember to keep the bourbon within reach—but only after the first hammering.