SLIM AND NONE

When people speak I (usually) listen.

Among my favorite comments: “It’s all going to work out.” “You’re never given more than you can handle.” “I’ve never seen (or heard of) that before.”

My all time favorite?  "Well, the chances of that happening are slim and none.”
 
You may be a bit envious as I share this secret: Slim and None are two of my very best friends.

I am, in fact, the poster child for Slim and None’s demographic- The .0000627 Percent- a group so exclusive, the 1% seems bloated in comparison.

How did the universe decide that I should be so fortunate?  Haven’t a clue.  If you ever meet the universe, kindly ask and let me know.

I am not talking about switching lines at a crowded grocery store or toll booth, and waiting an extra thirteen minutes because I couldn’t stay put.

I'm talking Big Time.

Whenever I am making an important decision or purchase, I compose a quick mental list of pros and cons. I oftentimes ask a friend, colleague, salesperson or expert to give me their risk/benefit analysis. If said person concludes their analysis by uttering the words, “Don’t worry, the chances of that happening are virtually nonexistent,” I shudder. I brace myself. I think, “Gonna happen. No doubt about it.”

Because .0000627% chance of happening has happened.  To me.  More times than not.
          
The chance of that baby being born at 24 weeks? Slim and none.

The chance of transmission/brake failure while you are on the I-90 or GSP in the middle of nowhere, at midnight, with a truck full of kids?  S&N.

The chance of buying three acres of 100 year old trees and having a freak October snow storm damage or destroy dozens of them?  S&N.

The chance of hitting that diamond in the microscopic sweet spot that cracks it in half?  S&N.

Surely I exaggerate?

Unlikely. Quing never exaggerates. This stuff has happened to me 783 billion times. Just ask my friends.

Proof.  Daughter accidently drops ceramic bowl on glass cook-top.  Glass cook-top shatters. Husband and I (unhappily) shop for a new cook-top. Stainless steel. Same size as shattered cook top.  Delivery in a few days.

I ask: This will definitely fit, right?

Salesperson:  No doubt about it. Same size and manufacturer as the stove-top you have. A perfect fit.

I am a card-carrying member of the .0000627%.  So I inquire:  What happens if it doesn’t fit?

Salesperson:  I’ve been working here for ten years, ma’am. That's never happened before. I guess it could happen, but the chances are….”

Say it with me: Slim and None.

I shudder.  I brace myself.  Eternal optimist, I am going to take a chance that history will cartwheel and toss me into the It’s-all-Going-to-Work-Out demographic. The 99.99999637 Percent.  Just this once.

Surely the universe wants me to cook for my family.

Stove top arrives this morning.  Sparkly stainless and steel.  ¾ of an inch shy of a perfect fit.  And not another model available that will fill former cook-top’s glass slipper imprint.    

Swearing is an option.  Stomping.  Shouting.  Pulling out a curl.  Or two.

Instead, I am leaving the house (and the stove pit) to buy a lottery ticket.

Think about it.  The chance of my winning $52,000,000 in tonight’s Powerball lottery is slim and none.

Hey, You Never Know.


QUING HEREBY DECREES:  It’s Christmastime. Believe.