The bad news is that we’re stuck in a cavernous underground garage.
My guy and I have been enjoying long walks on immense beaches with the sun shining as if she’s a blooming sunflower.
But it’s time to stop searching for whales and instead research the closest grocery store for the night’s meal.
He clicks again. And again.
I know it’s our rental car, because I’ve memorized the last three numbers on the license plate (431). (Let’s just say we’ve ‘lost’ a rental car in the past…)
My guy hands the clicker over to me, knowing that I sometimes produce magic.
The rental papers are in the car’s glovebox. What can we do? Ah, we discover a tiny button on the key fob, and a key pops out. However, upon searching the car’s doors and trunk, no keyhole can be found.
With a sigh, my guy turns away, but I insist: “Try one more time.”
He does, and the locks spring open as if saying Ha ha. Fooled you.
We smile with relief and race off to the “Living Foods” store to collect some local fruit and vegetables and seafood, making sure we don’t lock the car.
After shopping and placing the grocery bags in the car’s backseat, my guy hits the ignition button and starts the car.
Well, no, he tries to start the car.
No ignition occurs.
No engine action.
And then we realize, the key fob’s batteries are dead.
“This car only has 600 miles on it!” my guy exclaims, worry lines furrowing his brow.
But my response is the opposite. “Thank goodness this didn’t happen in the garage.”
He peers at me under his sunglasses like I’m the namesake I’m sometimes called: “Pollyanna.”
I point to a building immediately to our right. Long’s Drugstore.
“Batteries,” I explain with not a little bit of harrumph to my tone.
The car’s manual (in the nifty glove compartment) lists the kind of battery that’s needed, and I sit in the car while my guy grumbles on the way to the drugstore “No way they’ll stock this kind.”
I singsong back, “Think positive!”
And while he’s gone, I vibrate positivity. Please, please, PLEASE may the right battery be on hand.
He presses the ignition button, and Vroooooom!
“How lucky are we?” I shout out gleefully.
The expression on my guy’s face is priceless. “Lucky?” he asks, dumbfounded. “The car is practically brand new and the fob battery ran out.”
“But we ended up in a spot right next to a drugstore where, miraculously, it sold a rarely used battery!” I sing.
“Pollyanna,” he declares.
“Oscar,” I return.
Each of us is proud of our nickname.
In my guy’s mind, Oscar the Grouch is a realist. In my mind, Pollyanna is an optimist.
How about you?
Is your glass half full? Or half empty?
Has your flower just bloomed, or is the bloom almost over?
Is your sun rising? Or setting?
Does your rainbow promise gold? Or rain?