It Fell Amoung Thieves
It fell amoung thieves
A personal tragedy this past week causes me to reflect on two seemingly unrelated thoughts:
At least once a week, someone gives me too much change, and I have to ask them if I can give them money back.
And, coming home at two in the morning from a trip to Colorado, I sat at the stoplight by Central Bank and waited until it turned green. Have you ever been on Main Street at 2 a.m.? It’s the definition of empty.
And yet, innocent as a lamb, I had my purse stolen Friday in Provo Canyon – it was broad daylight, and the canyon was anything but empty.
I had parked at the Bridal Veil Falls parking lot – and no, I don’t want to buy it as a honeymoon present for my hubby. The sign up there tempts me every time I go by, but no. Lately my husband and I have been riding our bikes together around the industrial park. That suits me better.
After a few session of aerobics at the Orem Rec Center – I’ve had all sorts of athletic events this week – I was going to make my “final assault” on the Provo River parkway hiking tail and try the portion from Bridal Veil to Vivian Park at 4 in the afternoon. Could I make it that far without a restroom? And why was I hiking a 4 when it was 90 degrees out?
As I got out of my car, I avoided eye contact with everyone. My husband keeps asking me if I noticed anyone suspicious. Geez, a parking lot is like an airplane. You keep your head down because people don’t want to be friends with you. They want to jog or bike or skate or whatever it is they came to do. Besides, I’ve committed too many faux pas in my life by saying hi to everyone I meet.
Plus, I was preparing myself mentally for the big event. I usually don’t walk this far. It’s at least four miles round trip to Vivian Park from Bridal Veil, but this week I decided I was going to turn my customary little stroll around the block in an “hour of power.” I jacked up my shoulders and squared my arms like I was some zoot-suit cartoon figure from the ‘30s, swinging away as I walked.
While I was a-stroll, some desperate young person – I assume – came with a crowbar and pried open the door handle unites on both sides, moved the paper bag I’d cleverly covered my valuables with, and walked away with my life- my purse. We used to have an old maroon and white GMC van with a “bump and grind” décor motif. Now we have a new forest green Suburban, and we’ve been robbed twice. If that isn’t worth a scriptural reference, I don’t know what is.
I hate being robbed. It makes me so darn mad. So mad that I start having violent fantasies. On my way down the canyon, I saw some emergency vehicles at the scene of an accident in the river. I’m a bit embarrassed to say that I found myself hoping like heck that the victim was the person who took my purse, and he was stuck in the current, getting his brains banged out on a boulder.
There was $30 in the purse, perhaps not worth an entire brain. Certainly, thieves can’t have entire brains or they would realize they’re never going to have any real friends if they steal things.
Now I’ve got to replace my driver’s license, my checks, my credit cars, the kids’ pictures. I’ll never replace the #25 gift certificate to the Macaroni Grill that someone gave my husband in return for a favor he did. My Day Timer with all the phone number in it. Notes on the one-and-a-half great ideas I’ve ever had. My Blockbuster card. My Hogi Yogi card with half the little squares stamped for a free yogurt. Phone numbers for motels I want to stay in if we ever go on another vacation. Names of books I want to read. Names of people whose names I always forget.
Gone, gone, gone. The purple lipstick I never remembered to wear, but always thought was cool
If you want to do something fun this week, Thursday night there’s supposed to be a great meteor shower. No one can steal the starts.
A personal tragedy this past week causes me to reflect on two seemingly unrelated thoughts:
At least once a week, someone gives me too much change, and I have to ask them if I can give them money back.
And, coming home at two in the morning from a trip to Colorado, I sat at the stoplight by Central Bank and waited until it turned green. Have you ever been on Main Street at 2 a.m.? It’s the definition of empty.
And yet, innocent as a lamb, I had my purse stolen Friday in Provo Canyon – it was broad daylight, and the canyon was anything but empty.
I had parked at the Bridal Veil Falls parking lot – and no, I don’t want to buy it as a honeymoon present for my hubby. The sign up there tempts me every time I go by, but no. Lately my husband and I have been riding our bikes together around the industrial park. That suits me better.
After a few session of aerobics at the Orem Rec Center – I’ve had all sorts of athletic events this week – I was going to make my “final assault” on the Provo River parkway hiking tail and try the portion from Bridal Veil to Vivian Park at 4 in the afternoon. Could I make it that far without a restroom? And why was I hiking a 4 when it was 90 degrees out?
As I got out of my car, I avoided eye contact with everyone. My husband keeps asking me if I noticed anyone suspicious. Geez, a parking lot is like an airplane. You keep your head down because people don’t want to be friends with you. They want to jog or bike or skate or whatever it is they came to do. Besides, I’ve committed too many faux pas in my life by saying hi to everyone I meet.
Plus, I was preparing myself mentally for the big event. I usually don’t walk this far. It’s at least four miles round trip to Vivian Park from Bridal Veil, but this week I decided I was going to turn my customary little stroll around the block in an “hour of power.” I jacked up my shoulders and squared my arms like I was some zoot-suit cartoon figure from the ‘30s, swinging away as I walked.
While I was a-stroll, some desperate young person – I assume – came with a crowbar and pried open the door handle unites on both sides, moved the paper bag I’d cleverly covered my valuables with, and walked away with my life- my purse. We used to have an old maroon and white GMC van with a “bump and grind” décor motif. Now we have a new forest green Suburban, and we’ve been robbed twice. If that isn’t worth a scriptural reference, I don’t know what is.
I hate being robbed. It makes me so darn mad. So mad that I start having violent fantasies. On my way down the canyon, I saw some emergency vehicles at the scene of an accident in the river. I’m a bit embarrassed to say that I found myself hoping like heck that the victim was the person who took my purse, and he was stuck in the current, getting his brains banged out on a boulder.
There was $30 in the purse, perhaps not worth an entire brain. Certainly, thieves can’t have entire brains or they would realize they’re never going to have any real friends if they steal things.
Now I’ve got to replace my driver’s license, my checks, my credit cars, the kids’ pictures. I’ll never replace the #25 gift certificate to the Macaroni Grill that someone gave my husband in return for a favor he did. My Day Timer with all the phone number in it. Notes on the one-and-a-half great ideas I’ve ever had. My Blockbuster card. My Hogi Yogi card with half the little squares stamped for a free yogurt. Phone numbers for motels I want to stay in if we ever go on another vacation. Names of books I want to read. Names of people whose names I always forget.
Gone, gone, gone. The purple lipstick I never remembered to wear, but always thought was cool
If you want to do something fun this week, Thursday night there’s supposed to be a great meteor shower. No one can steal the starts.
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