By Lori Silverman
Since March 2000, it’s been a yearly ritual for me to attend all of part of the Pacific Life Tennis Tournament in Indian Wells, CA. As a doubles player in high school, I became enamored with the spectator side of the game while on a trip with my (former) husband to Australia in January 1995. We were in Sidney for the second time, after spending a month traipsing through Port Douglas, Tasmania and Melbourne. With nothing to do for the day, we asked the bellman at the Sheraton Hotel for ideas. He suggested a tennis tournament in White City. Sitting literally within yards of players like Gabrielle Sabatini, Pete Sampras and others of this era, sparked all sorts of renewed energy for the sport within me.
This year, however, was different. Instead of boarding a flight from Madison, Wisconsin to Palm Springs and standing in line for hours to get a rental car, I had the luxury of driving from my home in Mesa, Arizona. As I skirted across the lush desert—a result of lovely winter rains—I couldn’t help reflecting on what had happened 18 months earlier.
I’d been corresponding for a few days with Mark on JDate, a dating site for jewish singles. He’d caught my eye. Actually his profile had caught my eye. It started with my favorite quotation from Auntie Mame: “Life is like a banquet and most poor suckers don’t even know they’re hungry.”
Each of his e-mails drew me in closer. He’d mentioned early on that, “Dinner and drinks were on him if I were to ever be in Hollywood.”
Now, those who know me well are aware that I can be anywhere somebody wants to be in the blink of an eye. “Have passport and American Express card, will travel” is my motto. So, I booked a condo at the Marriott Villas II where I own property, reserved an Enterprise rental car—the cheapest I could find—and immediately set out to let Mark know I’d be coming to a city near him, albeit a drive just shy of three hours on a good traffic day.
I was nothing less than ecstatic when he returned my e-mail within 10 minutes. It was a lengthy one. It commented on his firm’s website, some challenges I’d been having with my book publisher, my upcoming trip, meeting for dinner and a date he was having that evening with a guy. “A guy. A guy!! What? WHAT GUY?”
I quickly logged on to JDate to re-read his profile. How could I have missed that he was looking for a man? I quickly rationalized that it had to do with my not being good with details.
So, how does one salvage a trip like this? I called my friend Karen who’d recently moved with her husband and daughter to Yuma. Maybe I could visit them, too. She was elated. “Yes, they’d be in Yuma. And yes, please come and visit for a day.”
When I arrived at the airport, I immediately boarded the bus to the rental car facility where the keys to a Chevy Cobalt were patiently waiting for me. And I took off towards my one-bedroom condo in Palm Desert. Two days later, I departed early in the morning for Yuma. The route took me down I-10 East to CA-86 South, to CA-11 South and finally to I-8 east. Total drive time 2 hours, 31 minutes. 155 miles.
Karen had decided we would all celebrate my birthday over lunch at one of the best restaurants in town. The cioppino was spectacular. So was the warm, crusty French bread and the conversation only close friends know how to have with each other.
Not being fond of driving in rural, desolate areas in the dark, towards 5 o’clock, I decided to depart. On the way back, I debated about stopping to use the restroom at a tiny gas station. “Should I or shouldn’t I? Can I hold out?” And decided emptying my bladder wasn’t the most important priority.
The sky was fully darkened by the time I pulled into the covered parking spot where I was staying. I picked up my purse. Turned off the lights. Opened the car door. And turned off the ignition. But the key wouldn’t budge. It wouldn’t come out.
“I must be on an episode of Candid Camera. Where’s Allen Funt? Oh, that’s right. He’s dead. Peter hosts the show today. ”
After a moment of silence, I turned the car back on and tried again. The key still didn’t budge. “This can’t be happening to me. I really need to go to the bathroom.”
I sat there. For all of about ten seconds before deciding to turn the car on for a second time. I drove to the security station at the entrance to the compound and parked the car in between the entrance and exit lanes. I got out and approached the guard.
“Hi. I’m feeling a little foolish right now. I’m having a teeny tiny problem with this car. The key won’t come out of the ignition when I turn it off. Seriously! Can you try?”
He looked at me as though I was a crazy woman and strutted over to the car. Hah! He couldn’t pull it out either. “Ma’am, there’s something the matter with this car.”
“I KNOW that. What do you think is the problem?”
“I don’t know. Let me call my buddies.”
Within sixty seconds, two more guards appeared. They huddled together by the front of the car, talking in low whispers. Together, they tried again. But no luck.
In the meantime, I’d called Enterprise. “The key won’t come out of the ignition. Can you bring me another car like you do on TV?”
“No, ma’am. I can’t do that. There are only two of us here—the van driver and me. If you want a different car, you’ll have to drive to the airport.”
“But that’s 30 minutes from where I’m staying.”
“That’s all I can offer you ma’am.”
“Ma’am. Ma’am.” He ought to have my bladder that by this point has ten times its normal size. “Fine. Have a great car for me.”
And off I went. To the airport. The first order of business when I arrived? You know what that is. The second? To share my horror story one more time with the guy at the counter.
“You know, that problem has happened to us before on these Cobalt's. It happens around 12 to 14 thousand miles. And yep, that’s about what your odometer says.”
“If you know that, then why do you rent these cars to single women like me?”
“Well, ma’am we can’t predict when it’s gonna happen.”
I eventually drove away with a brand new vehicle—a sporty little car and a free tank of gas for my upcoming trip to Hollywood to meet Mark.
I’ve since come to “expect the unexpected.” To laugh out loud at my mistakes. And to take things in stride when unexpected things happen. It’s not worth stressing or getting angry over these sorts of situations. Because there’s always a silver lining. And life at its best is better than any comedy show.
What about you? Do you allow for the unexpected? Or do you get all hot and bothered over these situations? Does getting angry or frustrated help? If not, then maybe there’s a different way to respond. One that plays off of the never-ending humor in life.
PERMISSION TO REPRINT: You may reprint this story as long as you include the following attribution: "Learn more about Lori Silverman’s work as a strategist and keynote speaker at http://www.partnersforprogress.com. Her latest book, Wake Me Up When the Data Is Over debuted in the top 100 books on Amazon in October 2006. She can be reached at 800 253 6398 or lori@partnersforprogress.com."
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