I sat in my car, my hands gripping the steering wheel, glaring at the front end loader inching its way across the road. Perhaps the sheer force of my gaze could speed the thing up? But no. It lurched forward, then back, then forward, then back, performing what appeared to be a 39-point turn to nowhere. I glanced at the dashboard clock and groaned.
I was going to be late. Again.
Why did I take this route when I knew it was torn apart, under construction? Why didn’t I think? And why, oh why, was I always the only member of the Relief Society presidency who showed up to our meetings scrambling and breathless instead of composed and prepared?
When would I ever get my act together?