Putting things into perspective.

Sometimes when life really gets you down, the easiest way to start to feel up again is to put your own woes and miseries into perspective. It's hard to complain about the lack of a parking space when you remind yourself, in a moment of somber reflection, that there are people in this world who unclog toilets for a living.

The other day, I arrived at work at six a.m., only to be sent out again at nine on an emergency grocery run. Nine o'clock is, of course, when every other car is just driving into the claustrophobic parking structure, while I was trying to get out. Since two vehicles can never round a corner at the same time, I only finally managed to scrape through, literally, by gauging the side of my three-month-old Toyota against the cement wall. (As my friend Mike once accurately determined, hell is most definitely a parking garage.)

Once in the grocery store, a search for large, unsalted, hard pretzels, toffee-coated pralines, Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper, and Slim Jims ensued, which meant only one thing: the boss was in town. I once purchased a single pack of gum on the company dime during one of these excursions only to have to cough up the ninety-five cents in a large public display of my powerlessness. But three boxes of pretzels no one else will eat, twelve dollar pralines, and a twenty-four can set of nasty ass cola for a one-day only appearance is, apparently, fine-d-dandy.

I return to the office to an accusing chorus of "Where were you?" Everyone's in on this one, but by the time I remind them I'd been there since six, two hours before anyone else might I add, they've all lost interest. I become known as the office slacker.

"What were you doing last night?" Jill asks me, after I let loose a particularly jaw-popping yawn.

"I was here."

"Sure."

"Until ten." I point to Jarvis, the other production assistant. "We both were."

Jarvis thinks he is funny, but isn't. So when I say, "And then I was sleeping," he jumps in with "Around!" and proceeds to explain why his joke is so hysterical. It has to do with the comic timing and the play on words.

Jarvis is an asshole. But I don't tell him this. Instead I think about the fact that I could have been a caveman. Now that would have sucked. Can you imagine? An entire existence based on just trying to freaking survive. All you do is hunt and try not to get mauled by a woolly mammoth or clobbered with a large wooden club wielded by a hairy guy named "Ug," who likes to say things like "Ug Ug Hoo Ug Ug." And you can't even tell him what a loser he is because you're a caveman too, and all you can say is "Ug ug hoo ug," right back.

Jill is reading over the receipt. "Where are the pralines?"

I look over her shoulder and point. "Right there. Above gingersnaps."

"No," she says, putting one hand on her hip so I understand the seriousness of the situation. "Where are the pralines?" I follow her eyes down to the bags.

Fuck.

Sometimes the grocery store feels like a second home to me. My first being, of course, the office, which probably explains why, lately, I've been so down on LA. In my first home, I am office wench; in my second, I am service boy. Or girl. I am not especially great at either, and am told so often. My true talents lie in a job I will not be qualified for for at least another seven years. Apparently, making coffee and photocopies for that amount of time is the only suitable preparation for a career in writing. My third home is a fairly decent apartment I hardly ever see and pay for, but only just, by home number one.

Forty-five minutes later, I return with pralines and a monster headache, roughly the size of Jill's ego. I settle into my daily activities, which, being utterly mindless, allow me to contemplate the existence of slugs and how much it must suck to be one. To be just two solid inches of slime, and that's it. I could have been born a slug. I could have lived as a blob of goo and died as a smear on the pavement. And as I sit at my desk “looking up stuff on the internet,” the entire span of my hypothetical, meaningless slug life spreads before my eyes. Day one, I am born. Day two through nine-hundred and eighteen, I just sort of hang out, maybe move a couple inches now and again, just for the heck of it. Day nine-hundred and nineteen, I find a rotting apple core on the side of the road; this is the highlight of my existence. Day nine-hundred twenty, some eight-year-old nose-picker steps on me on his way home from school. My final moments are just a blur: me, dying on the pavement, while Nose-Picker scrapes his shoe against the curb. He points one germ-filled finger in my direction and says, "Eewy." As if it’s my fault my innards are all over his foot.

I can’t even tell you how glad I am not to be a slug.

"What are you so happy about?" Jill wants to know. In our office, happiness cannot be trusted.

"Just happy."

She gives me a look. The look. Then, "Don't forget ink cartridges."

"I didn't," I say, pointing to my computer as proof. I am ordering office supplies from staples.com. It is thrilling. My parents and college professors would be proud.

Any existence in which being bludgeoned is, like, a real concern I think deserves to win some sort of pity prize. Lately, I think I’ve been taking my lack of bludgeoning for granted, and that stops now. Because even though the boss would like our refrigerator door to open in the opposite direction, and I am charged with removing the door, switching the hinges to the opposite side, and reattaching it back to the frame, I can go through my day soothed by the realization that I will not be challenged to a duel, or contracted into mercenary work, or impaled by a jousting lance while riding a horse named Goldenfire.

Four hours later, Jill looks over my handiwork, then tells me I smile weird, and I should stop. This is because if she doesn't say something mean once every four minutes, her central nervous system will spontaneously combust. But I'm over it. I could have been a beetle 'got run over by a motorbike. 'Nuff said.

In some ways, my day continued to go south, but with my new life perspective in place, nothing seemed nearly as bad as the plausible alternatives: I could have been a tire swing; I could have married King Henry VIII; I could have been a concubine. Worst yet, I could have been a prisoner during the Roman Empire, forced to battle a lion in an open-air arena with my bare hands. I don't know about you, but in a fight between me and a lion, I will lose. It's just a fact I've come to accept. I once took an online quiz that assured me I could "take" thirty fifth graders, but a lion is a whole 'nother story. In fact I'm willing to bet one lion could take thirty of me. The beauty is, I'll never know for sure.

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ADDENDUM: More about slugs and why I'm glad I'm not one...

"Slugs are hermaphrodites, having both female and male reproductive organs. Once a slug has located a mate they encircle each other and sperm is exchanged through their protruding genitalia. A few days later around 30 eggs are laid into a hole in the ground or under the cover of objects such as fallen logs.

A commonly seen practice among many slugs is apophallation, when one or both of the slugs chews off the other's penis. The penis of these species is curled like a cork-screw and often becomes entangled in their mate's genitalia in the process of exchanging sperm. When all else fails, apophallation allows the slugs to separate themselves. Once its penis has been removed, a slug is still able to participate in mating subsequently, but only using the female parts of its reproductive system."

--http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slugs