No way was I going to miss this appointment. I’d waited eight months—longer—to get it. The clinic wasn’t accepting new patients until next year, but I kindly called, over and over, until they found something.

I’d been limping since last spring, and no one knew why. I had to stop jogging, and now I couldn’t even walk. People kept asking, “Why are you limping?” I shrugged and quickly changed the subject.

That morning, I’d taken my (limpy) neighborhood walk, showered, and dressed. I planned to arrive early, ensuring traffic—and nothing else—got in my way. In the kitchen I swiped the phone, checking the address so I’d know where to park. But my calendar glared: The appointment was at 9:45—not 10:45, as I’d assumed. It was already 10:00; I was supposed to have checked in 15 minutes ago. The red line on my calendar simply accused me.

“I’m late!” I blurted, slugging green tea and practically spraying it across the kitchen. “Bye!”

Let it be known: I have never been called a “Zen” driver. My driving has been called plenty of other things. I learned to drive in Southern California, where speed is king. I even love driving abroad, where Americans don’t rent cars because driving is “just too crazy.”

I have a zippy little ride and decades of practice going fast, risking yellow lights, and speeding back roads. I used every illegal skill I possessed that morning. I prayed to parking gods, speeding to the building in a record 10 minutes. My prayers were answered: There was a perfect spot right across the street.

Well, not exactly a........

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