This morning as I approached the entrance of the Wellington El station, the guy handing out the Redeye newspaper asked me if I’d buy him a coffee. My wallet was buried somewhere in the depths of my commuter bag, and I fumbled around for several of my carefully timed commuting seconds trying to locate it. Right as I was handing the guy a dollar, the brown line rumbled past over my head.

I’d missed my freaking train.

In my little world (populated by me and composed primarily of a four mile radius where I reside as the center of culture, intellect, celebrity and general awesomeness), this instance alone disproved all existing theories related to karmic realignment. I was going to be fifteen minutes late for my morning meeting.

I was contemplating all of this bitterly as I trudged up the stairs, when I suddenly heard someone cheerfully utilize my newest nickname.

“What’s up ponytail girl?”

I turned around to see that the red-headed guy from the other day was walking up the stairs behind me.

And then I tripped.

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. If anything, it was more of a stumble than an actual fall, because I managed to catch myself by grabbing hold of the handrail.

“Whoa. You okay?” he asked.

His tone implied that he was concerned, but when I glanced up I noted that he was sporting an amused expression. This whole situation wasn’t helping my (already ill) humor.

“How are you?” I asked to change the subject.

“I’m good.”

He had given up all pretenses of polite worry and was now grinning directly down at me. He looked like he was about to start laughing. When we reached the platform, I waved goodbye and walked away to lean against the railing at the southernmost end. Then I pretended to be really absorbed in reading the Redeye, which is funny since the Redeye reads like it was written by a staff of pop-culture enthused sixth graders. The articles bemuse me. I usually only get it for the Sudoku puzzle.

***

In the elevator this morning at work, some woman told me she’d heard it might snow this weekend.

Now. I get it that Chicago weather during the spring months is -- at its very best -- erratic, but snow?! That’s so disheartening after the temperate weekend/beginning-of-the-week weather we’d been enjoying.

In addition to being appalled by this, I was twenty (not fifteen) minutes late for my meeting because I had to run by the Walgreens in the building next door to purchase a new pair of pantyhose to replace the pair that I was wearing. The earlier stumble on the stairs had resulted in a run that began at my knee and extended up the center of my thigh in a highly unaesthetic manner.

Wait a second. I just thought of something. How come people refer to pantyhose as a pair? A pair implies two separate, but identical (sometimes in a mirror-image sense) pieces. A ‘pair of pantyhose’ is comprised of one continuous piece of fabric shaped into a shrunken looking mock-up of the lower half of your body. I wonder why we utilize the term ‘pair’ as a descriptor. I also wonder if I’ll ever start worrying about important things instead of items that relate strictly to the minutiae of my life.