Did you ever get the
feeling that your whole life is running at least a week late?
Mine is. Maybe it's because I was overdue at birth, so I've been
behind ever since. If I could ever catch up, I'd have it made.
Because, my friends, the secret to success and happiness is not
beauty, brains or talent-it's timing. And, boy, is my timing ever
off.
As a teenager, I'd
go to Cape Cod with my girl friends. Dullsville! All the other
girls there said, "Gee, you should have been here last week-end-it
was wall-to-wall boys!"
Later I'd take a trip
to New Hampshire for the foliage. Only there wasn't any. Oh, there
were leaves all right, but they had all turned brown. "If only
you had come last week," I'd be told, "the colors were spectacular!"
In the winter, I'd
trek back to New Hampshire to ski; and I'd arrive just as an unseasonable
heat wave was melting all the snow that had been fantastic last
week. So I'd head south to Florida to cavort in the surf, but
I couldn't because the jelly fish were having a convention. Last
week, needless to say, the water was gorgeous-and fish-less.
Come spring, I'd go
to Washington, bringing with me a cold snap that killed the last
of the cherry blossoms just as my plane touched down at Washington
National Airport.
In fact, wherever
or whenever I go, the first thing I usually hear from the hotel
desk clerk are the chilling words, "The season is over." Do you
know what that means? It means that if you haven't brought your
knitting along to while away the quiet hours, you've got big trouble.
On one such memorable trip, I did manage to find a small shop
that was open, by some fluke. The owner probably needed a rest
and decided that was the best place to get it at that time of
year. Out of sheer boredom I started spending with wild abandon.
Heck, what's a vacation for? I then asked if I might have a shopping
bag for my parcels. The shopkeeper shook his head and said, "I'm
sorry, I don't have any. The season is over." Bummer. When you
can't even make the shopping bag season, you know you're a loser.
Way back in another
century (1963 to be exact) my friend Irma and I went to Zermatt,
Switzerland, and managed to hit it during the one-week slump (and
I do mean slump) between the end of the summer season and the
beginning of the winter season. Since there was no one else to
talk to, our big entertainment was to go yell at the Matterhorn
so we could hear it yell back. Understandably, a little of this
mad excitement goes a long way; so after a couple of days of such
stimulating activity, I decided it would be much more fun to do
some laundry. As it turned out, it was.
While I was in the
bathroom rinsing out a few things, I heard voices. Human voices.
Not an echo, but an actual conversation. They were coming from
the suite next door, loud and clear, apparently amplified by the
plumbing and tile. I was fascinated. My neighbors (a socialite
couple from Boston, I gathered from their discussion) were having
a humdinger of an argument about everything from her money (which
she accused him of spending on himself rather than investing for
her) to his business affairs (which, not having been born yesterday,
she knew were not strictly business). Then they got around to
fighting over their Swiss sojourn. It seems that when she wanted
to go home, he absolutely couldn't leave because of pressing business
there. But now, just because the Red Sox had won the pennant,
suddenly they had to rush home so he wouldn't miss the World Series.
So the Red Sox had pulled it off! This was news to me-we hadn't
seen a newspaper in days.
I burst into the bedroom
where Irma was knitting (she's smarter and more realistic than
I, you see-she had brought hers along). "Guess What?!" I exclaimed.
"The Red Sox won the pennant!" She dropped three stitches and
to this days hasn't figured out how I learned that in a radio-less
bathroom in the shadow or the Matterhorn. You don't think I was
going to admit that I was eavesdropping, do you?
To further illustrate
how bad my travel timing is, I once got to Capistrano a week after
the swallows arrived. The travel agent had convinced me they were
going to be late that year. A little bird told him.
I am finally resigned
to the fact that wherever I go, at least three or more of the
following are bound to be true:
But I don't have to
travel to be in the wrong time zone. I manage very well right
here at home. For example, the other night a friend took me to
a trendy club where it turned out that for that night only they
were featuring local amateur "talent." Not only was the show unbelievably
bad, but the place was a mess-wrecked by all the enthusiastic
fans who had been there last week for a super star-studded spectacular.
Remember that old dance,
the Funky Chicken? Well, I finally learned to do it a week after
it died and went to the great barnyard in the sky. I also personally
insured the demise of the Electric Slide and the Macarena.
Furthermore, the week
after I had my hair cropped to overall one-inch fuzzy ringlets,
long and sleek became the only acceptable style. And do you know
how long it takes my hair to grow? Just long enough so that short
and curly will be back "in."
But I do have my good
days now and then. Take last Thursday. That was a beauty! When
I checked the winning lottery number in the paper I saw it was
mine! I was ecstatic-until I noticed that I was reading last week's
paper; and, of course, I hadn't bought a ticket then.
Well, I've cried on
your shoulder long enough. I'd better wrap this up and send it
to my editor. Excuse me a second while I check my calendar for
the submission deadline...
Dammit! It was last
week!
Rose Mula was an executive
assistant, a public relations specialist, and an operations manager
for a New England theater chain before discovering a passion for
writing.
Her work has appeared
in The Saturday Evening Post, Yankee, Modern Maturity, The
Christian Science Monitor, The Reader's Digest, The Philadelphia
Inquirer, The Baltimore Sun, and more than a hundred other
magazines and newspapers. Actually-thousands of newspapers, since
one of her essays, The
Stranger in My Mirror (originally titled, The Stranger
in My House), was reprinted in Ann Landers' nationally syndicated
column in 1999, and after an explanatory exchange with Ms. Landers, an attribution.
Rose's new book, If These Are Laugh Lines I'm Having Way Too Much Fun, is available at bookstores, through online bookstores, and from Pelican Publishing, 800-843-1724. The book was a finalist in USABOOKNEWS.COM's 2006 Best Books Award humor category. Meanwhile, she can reached
by e-mail.
