I am convinced there is an imp, a gremlin perhaps, following me from place to place, just waiting for the best time to strike. The best time being, of course, whenever I think I have things under control.
Oh, silly, silly, me for allowing optimism to raise it's pretty little head.
There I'd be, foolishly allowing hope to rub against me like a cat loving on a catnip-filled mouse, fully confident that I would beat whatever deadline was looming, when...POW! The gremlin smacks me upside the head with a hefty dose of reality.
This happened to me just last week. Now, I'd been having trouble with my left foot for a couple of weeks. Nothing terrible - it's not like I couldn't walk on the damn thing. It hurt enough only to be annoying. I figured I'd pulled a tendon or strained a ligament or something, and ignored it, trying to concentrate on the many tasks awaiting my attention. I had edits to do on my upcoming anthology, Fifty Gays of Shade. I had swag to finish for Gay Rom Lit, a convention/retreat for GLBT-romance writers and readers taking place in Albuquerque in two weeks. I had postcards and book covers to design for a short story, Zero's Fist, that I was putting up on Amazon (it had gone out of print a year or so ago, and I was tired of it collecting dust on my desktop). Not to mention the dozen or so works-in-progress I have, all piteously crying for my attention.
Anyway, there I was, working feverishly, feeling more and more confident that I would finish my work in a reasonable amount of time, when for some strange reason known only to the WTF gods, I decided to get my foot checked. Maybe it was the fact that it still hurt after two weeks, or maybe it was because the fucking thing kept swelling up and I couldn't fit it into my brand new, awesomely cute cowboy boots (most likely the latter, and by "most likely" I mean definitely), but I turned to the hubs and said, "I think I should go to the foot doctor."
It was the announcement, evidently, he'd been waiting for. He jumped up, donned his superhero cape, shouted, "To the bat-phone!" and raced into this office. He must've used his super power of persuasion on the doctor's office staff -- usually, you need to wait at least a decade to get in to see a specialist -- because before I could blink, I had an appointment with a podiatrist for two days later.
At this point, I was still confident I could complete my work in a timely fashion. I was certain the doctor would find nothing wrong with my foot other than a strain or sprain. I'd get a dose of meds, maybe an ace bandage and a warning to stay off the stilettos, and go home.
Well, I was right about the ace bandage and stiletto parts, at least. Not so much on the diagnosis.
I should have known better than to remain optimistic. It only instigates the gremlin.
I was in the x-ray room when the tech paused and looked at me cockeyed.
X-Ray Tech: Could I ask you a question?
Me: Um, sure.
X-Ray Tech: How old are you?"
Me: Why? Are you serving alcohol along with my x-rays? Great idea, by the way. I'll have a cranberry vodka, hold the cranberry.
X-Ray Tech: Uh, no. I was just curious. You look good.
Me *blushing*: Well, thanks! I've been on a diet. Lost forty pounds so far. But to answer your question, I'm fifty-two."
X-Ray Tech *looking crestfallen and not at all impressed*: Oh. That explains it, I guess. They had your birth year down as 1916.
So, either I look really, really good for 96, or really, really bad for 52. Fucking gremlin.
In any case, the doctor read my x-rays (no doubt marveling over the 96 year old infrastructure and ready to call the folks at the Journal of Medicine and Ripley's Believe It or Not until the X-Ray Tech informed her of my real birth date), and determined the injury was not a sprain or a strain.
It was broken.
Fucking malevolent, asswipe gremlin.
I left the office with my foot encased in a Frankenstein's Monster-esque hard-plastic boot, looking a lot like Optimus Prime's mother caught in mid-transformation.
Well, on the plus side, I guess I don't need to worry about squeezing my foot into my new boots for a while. On the other hand, I'll be stomping around GRL in Albuquerque wearing my Transformer-meets-Frankenstein's Monster boot on one foot, and a brand new, awesomely cute cowboy boot on the other.
In any case, it all set me back a few days on my schedule. Now, I'm banging on my keyboard, trying to play catch-up.
I may actually do it, too.
I only hope the gremlin isn't watching.