Hacked

Every new parent quickly learns not to criticize the parenting skills of others, saying or thinking along the lines of “my child would never do that…”  Just as soon as those words are out of your mouth the universal jinx law is fully engaged and your preciously perfect little angel is on a collision course for that exact same act you only moments early mentioned with disdain.

Or who hasn’t chuckled as someone tripped or stumbled in your path, only to do the exact same shuffle step or trip just a short distance down the road. 

It’s simple.  Don’t criticize.  Don’t mock.  Don’t be cruel.  We live on a circular planet.  What goes around comes around. 

I’ve also observed that it’s best to the thankful in generalities.  Be thankful for your friends.  Be thankful that your home is intact and you had food on the table for dinner.

Don’t sit on the edge of your bed, like I did, on an otherwise perfectly good Saturday afternoon and think to yourself – smugly – I am really fortunate.  My email has never been hacked. As a matter of full disclosure I should state that I tried to take it back.  I closed my eyes.  I shook my head.  I tried everything to start up my mental eraser, but it was too late.

Overnight, actually at 1:52 a.m. on an otherwise perfectly peaceful Sunday morning, my email, the exact same account only hours earlier I had thoughtfully appreciated was hacked.  Most every one of my public-relations-professionally packed contact list got the now classic message that I was in Spain and needing money. 

By 7 a.m. my phone was hopping with calls and text from friends.  Eager to alert me to the crazy activity of my email outbox.  I can’t stress strongly enough how mad I was by the virtual invasion.  I was livid.

The reactions from friends and family lasted all day Sunday and well into Monday.  Gratifying were the friends who were quick to let me know that they knew it wasn’t me because of the poor grammar contained in the body of the message.  Thank you.  That was possibly the only bright spot in the situation.

I eventually found humor in the friends who contacted me to say they had sent money.  Seriously it scared me to death the first couple of times I heard it, but after the fifth or sixth message and the barely contained giggles I got it.

"Note to  self" everyone: if I ever get stranded out of the country, it would absolutely be in Jamaica.  And if I lose my wallet, I won’t be complaining about it.  “No worries ‘mon.’” I will take up my first-ever waitressing gig and consider it a sign from God I’m supposed to stay.

For now I’m thankfully home, well-funded and enjoying an empty in-box.