Give Me Something to Kick

I wish I had something relatively soft but nevertheless satisfying to kick.

I've been looking forward to the Valentine's dance in Mittweida for at least a month. I convinced a friend to go though he has a big test on Monday. I asked around and couldn't find anyone who was driving so I could get a ride. Then I found out that two others who knew I had wanted to go had arranged a ride for themselves (oh, don't worry about me!). So I organized a ride on the internet. I went to the arranged place and even arrived five minutes early. With a super heavy and uncomfortable bag, as well as a sleeping bag and a rolled up mat swinging awkwardly around, I looked and looked for a "mocca"-colored Mercedes. Eventually, I got a text message saying, "Are you coming now?" so I circled the block repeatedly, looking at every single car since I didn't know what "mocca" is for a color. (Is that like coffee and brown? Or creamy coffee?) Since there's no money on my cell phone, it would have been nice if the driver had made some kind of effort to find me instead of just sending a message my way that required a reply. She could have at least written, "I'm parked in front of the bakery on such-and-such street," but no.

I finally gave up, got on the train, and had a glimmer of hope that I could get a Sachsenticket and split it with other people at the ticket machine in the train station, something that people do quite regularly. When I got there, there were four people looking for a fifth to split the ticket with, but they didn't know if it went to the right place, so I had to schlepp all my stuff to the info desk and wait in line. The lady at the desk confirmed that the train would get me to Mittweida, but when I got back to the right train, the people already had a fifth (that's the limit). I asked a few others waiting to buy a ticket, but no one else wanted to buy a Sachsenticket.

With a mad but broken heart, sore shoulders, tired hands, wet pants, and frozen toes, I crumpled the printout of the train times in my hand and walked back to the local trains. I missed mine by one minute, of course. When it finally came, I got in, plopped everything down (without even removing the shoulder bag), and simply waited out the ride. Those were the longest 11 minutes of my life. I just wanted to be home. Now here I am and I'm still so disappointed, that I'm mad, though there's nothing I can do about it now.

Happy Valentine's to me.