Sarah: Your Muddy Buddy

Last week, it was raining almost nonstop for a few days. While at work, I was sent to a nearby postal drop box to send out some letters. The dropbox, set to be accessible from the sidewalk, was separated from the parking lot by a small, grassy divider. No, let me rephrase: the sidewalk and parking lot were seperated by the muddy slippery-slide of death, which it was my mission to traverse. I think you can see where this is going. The shortened version of my experience is that I COMPLETELY fell in the mud. My back, butt, and legs were covered in mud. I laid a grocery bag on my car seat, called work to let them know I was on my way home to change, and returned a while later. The experience was a little mortifying and a lot messy. The most amusing part of the story was the face of the man who passed me in his car just as I slipped. His face contorted in sympathetic pain, and his mouth puckered as if the very air he breathed was sour. Other observers offered these helpful comments: "You dropped one" and "Are you ok?!" and "MM-hfgh-mmm." The last comment is an approximation of what I heard, since the man was yelling, through the rain, from across the parking lot. Yesterday, M needed one of the employees to take mail to the same drop box, but automatically called upon another person, reasoning "Well, I need him to come back after he drops it off." Good. I didn't want to go anyway. I never want to go there again. So there.