Have you ever had one of those days where you wonder what the hell you were thinking to even lift your head off the pillow in the first place? I had one of those days yesterday. It's like, just when I thought I had jumped the final hurdle, there comes yet another elephant that I am somehow supposed to climb over, despite the fact that I'm exhausted and have been running for what seems like five months full throttle. And this elephant is like the size of 127 very large, obese elephants. And on top of that, add a bi-monthly heavy period and sudden extreme hot flashes, and you start to get an idea of how I felt yesterday. Oh, and I forgot to add the gassy dog. Check.
So, as you know, I've been working hard at fulfilling my prerequisites for the paramedic program at college this fall, to which I've already been accepted, conditional on completing the prerequisites. And herein lies the seemingly perpetual problem. Although I will take blame for a bit of procrastination, a lot of fear, and a lack of time due to my peri-menopausal body wreaking absolute havoc with my insides for over a year now, as well as to having children who require a million errands for clothing, doctors, or a hug, I will not take the blame for what happened yesterday. Well, almost none of the blame. I'll take responsibility for a smidgen of it.
It all started on Wednesday when I called a driver training organization because I was told through the proverbial grapevine that it was well worth the price of the training in order to get the class of license I required in order to be a goddammed paramedic. Heavy sigh. They told me I needed to get my medical and written tests in pronto because spots were filling up faster than Lindsay Lohan can say, "I didn't mean to." Luckily, I already had my medical signed, so I felt pretty damn good about it.
Fast forward to yesterday (or would that be, rewind, seeing as today is Friday? God help me), and I thought I'd be a smarty pants and make my appointment with the driver training place BEFORE getting my written test done, because I am one who doesn't like following rules when I don't have to. Ahem.
The nice British lady at the driver training firm took down my name, license information, and said she'd be in touch as soon as she was able to set up a time for me. I felt great. No, better than great. Awesome. I then headed off to pick up a copy of the driver training handbook I needed for the written portion of the test, and planned on writing the test today.
I ended up going to the test centre yesterday, mostly because I got through the training book lickety split and felt ready. So off to the test centre I went, money, license and medical in hand. I was ready for anything, guys. Any.Thing. Except for what actually happened.
I arrived at the centre, sweat running down my spine and legs and between my buttocks (because of the heat wave), making it look like I'd either slipped and fallen into a puddle of dirty water, or peed my pants. In I go, grab a number, and sit to wait my turn. My turn is up within a couple of minutes. I tell the clerk what I'm there for, and she takes a look at my medical form, sighs heavily, rolls her eyes, and says in her very self-important voice, "I cannot accept this."
In my head, I'm saying pretty much every swear word that exists, and then some I made up on the spot. I'm creative like that. Out of my mouth came, "Oh. How come?" as innocently as I could sound at that moment of utter rage.
Apparently, my name wasn't anywhere on the medical form, which the doctor had filled out. But he (or I) hadn't filled out that one portion. And, of course, I hadn't noticed.
So, I ask the clerk if I can just fill out the form and we can move on. Well, of course I can't do that, because that would be MUCH too easy. The clerk shakes her head and looks at me like I was a green alien and drooling goop. And she says I can do whatever I want, but she can't accept the form.
Being the rebel that I most definitely am, I thanked the not-so-pleasant clerk and walked out to my car, sat in it, and signed the paper. I then walked back into the office, took another number, and waited again, this time hoping I didn't end up seeing the same clerk.
Well, I didn't see the same clerk. This clerk was more pleasant. She didn't frown at me, or even growl, so I knew this time would be a more pleasant experience.
She asked me to look into the vision test machine first. Now, this test is one of the things I've been afraid of, because I have bad eyes. I was pretty sure I would pass the test, but knowing me, strange things often happen. She tests my left eye first. And I can't see a thing. Just blur. As if I was drunk on seven mojitos and a case of old beer. But I wasn't. Unfortunately, for me.
The clerk hesitates, mumbles something, and I realize I'd better come up with an explanation, and fast. She then asks me if I'm wearing my contact lenses. Yeah, it was THAT BAD, guys.
So I explain that my eye doctor had prescribed one lens to see distances, and the other to see close up. That seemed to work, and the clerk allowed me to continue with the test. The final part of the test requires me to look with both eyes open, but I didn't know this, so again, I couldn't see a damn thing.
I almost failed, guys. But I didn't. She passed me.
I thought the worst was over. I sighed a very heavy sigh of relief, and waited for her to send me over to complete the written portion of the test.
But no, that did not happen. Of course not. That would have been too easy, too simple, too amazingly wonderful and perfect for it to happen to me.
Instead, the clerk cleared her throat, made a weird sound that came from somewhere deep in her belly, and said, "We have a problem here."
My brain synapses went into overdrive, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong now. Every possibility ran through my head, including that I was possibly wanted for a murder I hadn't actually committed, and suddenly I imagined myself in court, with a nasty judge who really hated middle-aged blonde women with uneven breasts. And I would be found guilty by virtue of having uneven breasts, and would spend the rest of my days in prison being harassed by very attractive, but violent, women in orange jumpsuits.
The nice clerk then told me that apparently I have a flag on my file regarding a medical incident IN THE 90s. Fifteen years ago, guys!!! I didn't even remember what this was about. The clerk couldn't tell me either. And then she said because of this flag, my application had to go to the ministry for approval, and she couldn't touch it. Which meant I couldn't take the written portion of the test, or the driver training course, until everything had been approved.
Which means it all just sucked big time, and I wanted to cry like a baby, go home, and lie in bed in the fetal position until I shriveled up (which actually shouldn't take too long, considering I'm half-shriveled already). My life was over.
I was so sad, guys. So so very very sad.
And I knew Mr. Handsome would be both upset with the bureaucratic stupidity of it all, as well as with me for WAITING UNTIL THE LAST MINUTE TO GET THINGS DONE. Yeah, I said it.
So, I wallowed in my world of self-pity for a few more moments, and then called the ministry office to figure out what to do. I spoke to William, who told me I had to go back to my doctor, who needed to write down that I was no longer afflicted, then FAX the form to Toronto, and I should be good to go in five days. Which sounds great, except that the driver training course is filling up faster than fast, and my chances are going to be slim to none to get into it and get my license by the end of the month. And the doctor isn't in.
I'm now in limbo, waiting for my doctor to come back from wherever he is so he can do his magic, before I can do anything else. And I feel like quitting, although that's not like me. But sometimes, I just figure that when things just aren't going your way, and everything seems about one billion times harder than it really should be, it just might mean it's not right for you.
I won't give up, but I sure do want to.