Flip a Coin

Interesting how two similar experiences can sometimes be like opposite sides of a coin.

On Thursday, amidst the drama of getting Dear Husband to sign the divorce papers, I had to drive my dog Bob to the half-day's-drive vet. Bob is a foster dog who has slowly sidled his way into my heart, and I agreed to adopt him if the rescue group for which I volunteer footed the bill to address Bob's medical problems. The rescue group uses a lovely vet who donates his services, but unfortunately his office is in the farthest northern reaches of bum-fucked Malibu.

We set out Thursday morning, me and three dogs, on a day as dark and gray as my mood. The dogs were cranky and fighting like three kids trapped in the back of a station wagon on a long road trip. Heading up PCH, the air was so heavy and wet that I had to run the wipers the whole way. The radio reception was spotty, so I popped in my only cassette tape. Note to self: No more Patsy Cline on days of darkest despair. I cried all the way to the charity vet's office.

Later that day, I met DH to sign the papers, and my black mood only increased. By Thursday night, I wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and die.

Fast forward to this morning: It was time to travel to Malibu again to pick up Bob. Before I left, I took care of some unfinished business that I should have addressed days earlier. So my mood was already shades lighter than it had been the day before when I embarked on the same trip.

Driving up the coast highway, it was like a different world. The sun was out and the ocean was a lovely shade of bottle green near the shore. The radio reception was good, and I sung along. Even the atrocious pastel Malibu mcmansions seemed more charming than obnoxious.

I was more excited than I realized to see Bob. Even though he mostly sleeps in the corner, as my friend A pointed out, he holds a place in my heart, and something was missing when he wasn't there, even for 24 hours.

When I got home, my temporary euphoria returned to something more familiar these days - manageable gloom. But I smiled when I thought about gazing out across the emerald Pacific, or seeing Bob's anxious face melt when we saw each other. I had to revisit a lesson I've learned many times before - happiness sometimes comes in sips and gulps, and we have to take it where we can find it.