Fool that I am, I honestly believed waking up this morning that the worst part of my day would be having to go into work on the weekend.

The depths of my folly are revealed as I arrive at my office around two o’clock this afternoon, when I suddenly realize that I have a Christmas party to go to this coming weekend, and that I was supposed to have dropped off my drycleaning this weekend; assuming, of course, that I didn’t want to show up at the party in a barrel.

Cursing, I race out of my office and head back home, unsure when my drycleaner closes on a Sunday but none too eager to test the limits. I get back up to my apartment, comb through the depths of my closet until I find my suits, brush off the dust (hmm, been a while), and with suits over my shoulder rush off to my drycleaner’s. This, it would seem, had turned into the worst part of my day.

Again I am wrong. It turns out that since my last visit to my drycleaner’s, they’ve had a change of managerial policy — from their previous “Come in on Sundays For Half-Priced Drycleaning!”, which I’d enjoyed on several occasions, to their new “Come in on Sundays to Discover With Crushing Disappointment That We Are No Longer Open on Sundays!”, which I found significantly less enjoyable.

As I stand in front of the drycleaner’s with a mixture of rage and dumbfounded shock, staring at the Closed sign as if willing it into non-existence, I realize with sudden clarity that, yes, this is the worst part of my day. It barely even registers seconds later that I have been proven wrong yet again, as it begins to snow, and I am mocked by passing teenagers for the look of defeated confusion on my face.