When did "supposed" — accepted by some as real, but on slender evidence — become "supposed to" — inevitable?
I guess when supposed is pronounced spos-ta. As in, it's spos-ta snow like hell today.
That's what we've been hearing for mosta the week, and although the dire forecast has lately been slipping into Thursday and Friday, it has already done some mischief. My in-laws cancelled their trip here, and by extension, the theater tickets we purchased. I decided it wasn't prudent to ride my bike to a crosstown meeting and get caught in the return traffic snarl. My domestic partner came home early because of cancelled clinic appointments.
As of 10 pm, however, though there's a dusting of snow, the blizzard has not hit my front walk.
Though I bailed on a perfectly good biking day and our family income will take a small dip because of a shorter work day, there are consolations.
For example: I've had a precancerous lesion on my forehead for most of year, or maybe two. What can I say? I'm a guy. It's not like the skin was sloughing off. But there comes a time in a domestic relationship when you understand your act is wearing thin and it's time to make the appointment.
So I called a dematologist, and they were taking appointments starting June 21st. (I guess it's good I wasn't depressed or something.) But I called again today, to another office, and voila — they had two openings for tomorrow, thanks to cancellations.
'Cause it's sposta snow, you know.
It might. Tomorrow's drive might totally suck. My life might be ruined by the experience. Or I can cancel. Or they will call me to cancel because their staff couldn't make it to the office. I expect it to be apparent tomorrow, and I'll deal with whatever comes.
But meanwhile, I have an appointment with a hard-to-book dermatologist, because I didn't worry about what "it" was supposed to do. I just did, finally, what I was supposed to do.