According to the movie "Spy Kids," the most dangerous words a person can utter are "I do."
(That's right — "Spy Kids." I enjoy mature entertainment.)
Anyway, the point is, saying "I do" can result in a lot of twists and turns in your life that you might not expect. I'm no expert on this, seeing as how I'm not married and all, but I would respectfully disagree with this pinnacle of American cinema. See, I believe the most dangerous words are these:
"I was going to be on time."
These words are dangerous because they always — ALWAYS — lead to an inevitable "But..." which naturally leads into a long, depressing story.
So, in keeping with that kernel of truth...
Once upon a time on a Sunday in December, I was getting ready for church. I was very excited because... I was going to be on time!
As I left my bedroom I had that tickling feeling in the back of my mind, warning me that I was forgetting something important. But since I had my scriptures and my iPod, I figured I had everything I needed. What else could there be?
So, I happily trooped through the front door and outside to my car. As soon as I went to unlock the car, though, it hit me. That unimportant thing that I had forgotten? Yep, my keys. Now, I know you're thinking, "Just go back inside and get them; no biggie," but it was a biggie. See, the door on my house locked as soon as I closed it, so I knew I was in trouble.
Still optimistic, I ran back to my front door, hoping that it hadn't latched.
It had.
Next, I ran around to the back of the house, hoping that a random roommate had left it unlocked.
They hadn't.
So there I was, locked out of my house with my scriptures and an iPod, in December, and without a coat. Genius.
Feeling like an idiot, I rang the doorbell. Two of my roommates were home, so I figured I would just ring the doorbell until one of them rolled out of bed and came to open the door. But no matter how many times I rang the doorbell, nobody inside of the house stirred. One of my roommates was hopped up on cold medicine, and the other was apparently the world's deepest sleeper. Since I had locked my cell phone inside, I couldn't even call them. My happy "I'm-going-to-be-on-time" Sunday had suddenly taken a turn for the worse.
Now, I'm never one to be defeated by locked doors. I've unlocked doors with bobby pins, and barrettes, and even spoons. My last roommate habitually locked me out of the bathroom. (Which is a traumatizing experience, by the way.) I also have yet to meet a house that I can't break into. Climbing onto the roof in a dress and breaking into my brother's room so I could get my toe shoes for Miss Utah? No biggie. Hopping through my apartment window without even bumping the goldfish bowl right inside of it? Easy. With years of experience under my belt, I figured I would be fine.
I figured wrong.
Since knocking and ringing the doorbell seemed to be getting me nowhere, I ran around the house, peering through the windows and trying to find one that was unlocked. Within just a few minutes I surmised that we five girls kept our house safely secured against people interested in breaking and entering. (In this case, that meant people like me.) But then, suddenly, I spotted my salvation — an open window! I ran over to it and pushed, only to find that our 1970s crank-me-open-like-an-old-car-window windows were impossible to open farther than a couple of inches. No matter how hard I pushed, the window wouldn't budge. That three-inch gap taunted me, laughing at my desperation.
"No three-inch gap will defeat me!" I vowed.
Having made the promise, the next step was to make it a reality. So, I decided to venture to the back of the house. It was a place I had never encountered before. I had only lived there for a month, and who seriously walks around the back of their house for no reason? Being locked out and cold proved to be the motivation I needed, so I began to explore.
The first thing I found was a door. My mind said, "Ah-ha! A door!" And the door responded with, "Haha. Locked."
The next thing I found was a cement staircase leading down. My mind said, "What the?!" and the stairs said, "You should walk down me...granted, it's creepy and dark and looks like a serial killer could be lurking at the bottom, but...come on down..."
Naturally, I went down.
When I came to the bottom of the stairs, I found two doors. The one on the right was thick and metal, and the one on the left was rickety and falling apart, with a gaping black window leading into a room I had never seen before. Feeling stupid, I knocked on the door to the right. There was no answer. Turning to the door on the left, I saw the orange glow of a space heater and my mind instantly began inventing stories like this:
"Scary basement room + space heater = homeless person living in my basement! There's a homeless person living in my basement!"
Desperation can cause a person to do silly things, so even though I was convinced I would find a hobo cuddled up in this random room under my house, I opened the door and went in.
To my utter relief, there were no drifters, transients, or homeless people. There was just a random space heater (turned on) in a creepy, random little room. None of it made sense, but I had been locked outside for a while, so it didn't matter. Besides, that room held my salvation. I used the bizarre space heater to warm up (December and no coat = not smart) and then I found it — a treasure...the best thing I had ever seen: a little, tiny piece of metal.
I don't really know what it was — a pruning blade? A saw? It was one of those things they give away for free in hardware stores, with jagged teeth on one side, and with someone's logo printed on the main body. Descriptive, I know, but it's the best I can do...
Even thought it's now a couple of months later, I still don't know the official name of that tool, but I do know that it saved the day. I used the saw to unscrew a screen on a door, then I pried the window open, stuck my hand in, and unlocked the door. I left the house at 8:50 a.m. (remember — I was going to be on time!) and walked back into my room at 10:44, having never actually left the premises. Needless to say, I was NOT on time.
The moral of this story is to be cautious when using the words: "I was going to be on time." I distinctly remember thinking those seven words as I left my bedroom, and found myself regretting that hubris only a few seconds later. From now on, I'm sticking with, "I'm going to be late." It just seems like the safer option...
During the whole process of trying to pick locks with bobby pins and creeping around my own house, I was incredibly self-conscious about the fact that I had locked myself out. I wanted my roommates to wake up and open the door, but at the same time, I really, really didn't want them to know that I was an idiot. That's partially why I didn't knock on any windows or ring the doorbell more than a few times. Looking back, I probably made a bad choice. Hindsight is a great thing...
And so are keys.
(And just in case you're curious - the random space heater was apparently placed there by my landlord to keep the pipes from freezing. Ghetto.)
(And just in case you're even more curious - this whole "Start a blog to beat writer's block" thing seems to be working. In this long break between posts, I've finished writing and editing a book. Success.)
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