Yesterday wasn’t exactly our day.
The frustrations bent something along the curve of the digital realm, I first accidentally killing a third of the songs on my iPod, then crashing the hard drive of my computer in an attempt to resolve the issue. At one point I thought I was going to need to start over, reinstall windows threatened by the idea of losing a months worth of photos and a year’s worth of scribbles. But calmer heads prevailed. (But who do those who help everyone else go to for help themselves?) Meanwhile, Karin completely trashed the DVD drive on her own machine, spending half the day trying to make it work again, but finally dropping the now-defunct component in the trash pile.
A visit to Tim Horton’s was lost in the midst of there somewhere, and Karin lost her claim to fame as the only Canadian who had never played “Roll-up-the-Rim” as she drank down an Earl Grey and promptly revealed a “Please Play Again.”
But the computer started boot again, the songs started to re-encode, and secondary solutions were found for those other lingering issues. Things tend to feel wasted in cases like that, but what can one do?
We vented our day of stress — or so we thought — watching “Game 6” as the evening rolled in, curling up on the couch and cheering for the Canucks, chased by the knowledge that a win would mean a “Game 7” and those tickets in Karin’s backpack wouldn’t be completely worthless. Two overtimes later, we realized that with this (today’s) morning’s big event, sleep would be an asset, and we had better leave games alone, and trust those overpaid players to do their jobs in our favour. Needless to say, Vancouver won five minutes after we went to bed, and now we get to go to our first NHL game since living in this fine city.
But now. Now it’s Sunday. And in about two hours we’ll be standing in the middle of Georgia Street once again, ignoring the spits of raindrops, bouncing on our toes trying to see what’s going on, and clustering for warmth as we anticipate the last few moments of peace before we descend into the running mayhem. It’s only ten kilometers, I suppose, packed in the midst of fifty-thousand other runners. But I remember how I felt last year as I crumpled home in the rain: and I remember my string of luck from yesterday.