I said my goodbyes, locked the door and practically ran down the twenty-eight stone steps. If I hurried to the car, sped down the street, and raced along the highway I would still be late—but I had to try.
I slid into the car, placed one foot—ever ready—on the brake pedal, began closing the car door and sniffed: shit, literally.
Between stepping off the last step and stepping in to the car, one of my feet had sunk sole deep into a pile of dog poop.
I didn’t have a dog.
I tiptoed up the steps, kicked off both shoes and leaving them outside, I rushed back in the house. Armed with paper towels and cleanser I tried scraping the offending goo from my shoe but stuck for time, I searched for other shoes to match my outfit. Ten minutes later I was again at step twenty eight.
I scraped residue of poop off of the brake, tossed the wasted paper into the trash can, slid in the car, turned the key, sniffed and inhaled deeply.
I had cleaned the poop from my car but not from in front of the car door; I had stepped in it again.
There’s a moral here about cleaning up other people’s messes; not letting your dog poop where you aren’t planning to scoop; and there’s probably a dating lesson in here too.
“I can’t believe you still don’t look down when you walk,” my youngest laughed.
That was probably the lesson I was supposed to learn.