Bad days are relative

 I was on my way to a funeral...

Not only was it true but it also conveniently works as a literary device foreshadowing the approach of a series of dire circumstances that will ultimately impede the journey of our protagonist (me).

Unable to locate any funeral dirge songs on my truck radio, I made do with Maroon 5's sad lament, Payphone. Suddenly, I realized that I had to sing MUCH louder to compete with the sounds coming from beneath the Titan. Hmmm...I thought to myself... I must be developing a little hole in my muffler. Undaunted, I continued my quest, making the necessary adjustments by turning up the radio. As I drove through town, I was pleased to notice so many infused with the holiday spirit, enthusiastically waving to me. As Adam Levine and I paused to take a breath, though, I heard a somewhat more concerning sound. Sort of a rattle, rattle, bump, bump, grind, grind, thunk. Hmmm...I thought to myself, glancing with concern at the time...perhaps I should take a little peekie before proceeding.

A pause in a parking lot revealed that my pilgrimage was not just momentarily postponed...it was cancelled. I regarded my muffler solemnly as it sat, wedged between the undercarriage of my truck and the asphalt of the parking lot. Sighing, I kneeled down to tentatively poke at it. Glancing at my watch, I calculated the arrival of my soon-to-be-notified hero. Three hours. This part was tricky. Do I leave the muffler alone and invite a slightly-scornful oration on how I should be able to think for myself or wiggle under my truck and tackle the problem head-on? Likening the muffler to a dangling  molar, I debated twisting it off. I knew, at the very least, I needed to get the muffler off the ground so I tucked it gently up onto a handy little shelf nearby. And then settled in to wait. The three hours seemed to practically fly by.

Knowing that I was upset about missing the funeral, Brad was gentle and kind as he assessed the situation. "What'cha got going on down here?" he asked, his voice rising calmly from beneath the truck. I explained my idea for elevating the muffler. "So you jammed it up into the transmission?" Brad clarified, nodding solemnly, "Solid plan."

After he wired the muffler up, he declared that it was time for a Pepsi. Marching over to a vending machine, he sought to purchase a salve for my bruised spirit. "I'm so sorry," he said, handing me a can of soda that clearly WASN'T a Pepsi. It was time to call it a day. When I finally got home, I realized that my dear friend, having received my apologetic text that I wasn't going to make it to her dad's funeral, had responded, telling me how sorry SHE was that I was having a bad day. Sigh. Sometimes you just have to suck down the soda that clearly isn't a Pepsi, stuff your muffler up into your transmission (No...that ISN'T a euphemism!), and quit your whining. Because on that particular day, I had absolutely NOTHING to complain about...except that I couldn't be with my friend to support her on one of the days where she needed me most.