One of Those Days

It was one of those days. I was very aggravated, unnecessarily so, over somewhere I had to be at 1:30 p.m. to do something I didn’t want to do. It involved volunteering at a local non-profit, and others were counting on me to be there. There was no way I was getting out of doing this task.

The morning was busy. I began running errands at 9:00. They involved driving south on Reisterstown Road, making three stops, to the library, produce store and kosher butcher, Wasserman & Lemberger. Traffic seemed heavier than normal, which annoyed me further.

I was home around 10:00 a.m., started dinner — beef stew in the crock pot — and had time to relax. A humdrum lunch was eaten early (peanut butter on an English muffin and a banana) since I was going to a 45-minute women’s class at a local synagogue, Pikesville Jewish Center. The class is once a week and begins at 12:30 p.m.

As usual, our teacher arrived late. Generally, she’s five minutes late, but this day, she was 10 minutes late. Class, therefore, started at 12:40 p.m.

The topic was the book of Joshua. She’s the type of teacher who can talk about one sentence in a chapter for 45 minutes. However, during this session she’s trying to teach us the entire book, which means doing a chapter in the allotted class time of 45 minutes.

She’s British and was talking so fast I could barely understand what she was saying. Meanwhile, her phone rang three times, interrupting her. And we had a new person in the class who kept asking questions or making comments. Others chimed in to comment on her comments. I kept looking at my watch. Finally, around 1:20 p.m., we were done! I grabbed my book, water bottle and car keys, which were in a jacket pocket, and ran out the door.

Zooming out of the parking lot, I had less than 10 minutes to get to the 1:30 appointment, a 15-minute drive without traffic. Muttering under my breath during the entire drive, I got there at 1:35 p.m.

I parked, grabbed a tote bag full of stuff needed for the afternoon and locked the car. Suddenly, it dawned on me that my pocketbook was missing. Nope, it wasn’t in the car. Uh oh. Maybe I left it at the synagogue.

*&*!!#*&%$# Curses! My phone, driver’s license, credit cards and a snack were just some of the items in that purse! What to do? I went into the building where others from my “team” were waiting near the receptionist desk. Hyperventilating, I explained my dilemma. Everyone made suggestions, but I tried to explain:

• This was a small synagogue that has no onsite staff. It relies mostly on members.
• The door was on a timer and locked after our class since the building was empty for the rest of the day.
• The only phone numbers I knew by heart were my landline and my son’s cell phone. All other contacts of synagogue members were in my phone.

The receptionist let me use her phone to call home. Of course, my husband didn’t pick up. Then again, what could he have done anyway? We’re not members of the synagogue and don’t know who oversees the building. I left him a garbled message.

One person pulled up the synagogue website on her phone and sent an SOS email using my email and name. Another person let me use her phone to call my son. He’s a member of the synagogue, and one of his buddies is head of the Security Committee. If anyone could get me into the building, it would be Scott. But of course, Eli didn’t pick up. Then I came up with the idea of sending him a text. A third person lent me her phone to do that.

About 15 minutes later, Eli called back on the third phone. I explained the problem. As it turned out, he had a key to the building. Despite being home sick, he said he would meet me there when I finished volunteering. Naturally, the Jewish guilt kicked in; I was making him get out of bed to rescue Mom. Later, it dawned on me that besides the key, he’d have to know the alarm code. He could always call Scott! He’d know the code!

Approximately an hour later, the volunteer project was finished. I cleaned up, had a drink of water, used the bathroom, sucked in my breath and began to worry about driving home without a license! It was only three miles but…

Then, a miracle! My husband called the front desk, and the receptionist handed me the phone. My pocketbook made it home! Two of the class attendees, who are good acquaintances, noticed my purse hanging on the back of the chair where I sat! One had my cell phone number. Of course, when she called the number, she heard it ringing in the purse.

“Damn,” she thought.

The other must have found my driver’s license since she drove to my house to drop off the pocketbook. Ken wasn’t there; he was taking a walk. The smart lady left him a note with her phone number. When he got home and found the note, she said she’d drive over and drop it off. What a mitzvah (good deed)!

When I got home I called both of them and we had a good laugh.

As one who is usually meticulous and somewhat anal about my stuff, I couldn’t understand how this happened. Then, it dawned on me. My car keys were in a jacket pocket, not the purse. Had they been in the purse, I would have fished them out and taken the purse with me. Lesson learned? Never leave keys in a pocket.

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Read more by Eileen Creeger.