It's Show Time, Folks

And then there is karma. I can tell the Earth has shifted on its axis. Disaster upon disaster at work and a host of horrific inconveniences tell me that I am doomed. This date is doomed. Something will go gravely wrong.

I'll like him and he won't like me.
He'll like me and I won't like him.
I'll like him and then he'll do something I positively can't live with like laugh like a hyena.
He'll be sold on me until I laugh and a huge wad of snot flies out of my nose and lands on the face of his Rolex.
Something.

And I know this because the world is hinting at it.

On Monday I get an unsightly zit conveniently on the end of my nose and have to make an emergency trip to CVS to buy every zit zapping product known to man.

I experience epic constipation.

All in one day, I nearly wipe out on an errant pickle in the cafeteria, burn my hand with Hil's curling wand, and get stuck in an elevator between the 6th and 7th floors of my building, for ten minutes, with what could most charitably be described as the Seven Sisters of the All-U-Can-Eat Buffet.

I get a bout with allergies that make me sound like Lisa Loopner, only a little less sexy.

And the day before the date, my children are both sent home from school with fevers and fatigue and a suspicion of the flu, threatening to command my attention the entire next day, when I'd hoped to be able to focus on my fabulosity for a few hours prior to the doomed date.

But the day arrives and the kids are right as rain.  My zit has reduced in size and hue so it could be reasonably mistaken for just another freckle. The constipation has, shall we say, moved along. I have nasal sprayed and allergy pilled myself to the point of toasting my brain, with the added benefit of burning off all my nose hairs.

By 4 pm I am showered, shaved, flat-ironed and fabulous. Just as the doorbell rings.