There are three things I never like to find in my mailbox - an insurance bill, a jury summons, and another invitation to my cousin Fern's Scrapbooking for Jesus party.
Last month I received all three.
I paid the bill, called Fern and regretfully declined because my neighbor's Jewelry for Jesus party was on the same day,and sat there holding the official red summons with shaking hand asking, "Why me, Lord? Why me?" And He answered, "Why not you?" And like I had been taught by every motivational speaker since birth, I did an inward attitude reversal and decided to embrace jury duty with the same enthusiasm that my Aunt Bitsy embraces the all-you-can-eat chicken wing buffet.
Some people don't believe you can prepare for jury duty.
I, however, was born for it, having clocked in at six hundred forty-seven episodes of Law and Order, SVU and Criminal Intent, and four consecutive seasons of CSI.
Not only have I been educated in all aspects of the law and how to gather evidence wearing high heels and cleavage inspired t-shirts, but I am also quite confident that I could perform an autopsy upon request, along with a little criminal profiling - all in sixty minutes.
The only thing left to do, of course, was to plan my outfit.
I went for the animal print clogs with the black slacks that hold in my stomach, and the matching animal print vest which I ditched at the last minute for fear of a stray PETA activist who didn't know her faux.
It was undoubtedly the best outfit for serving my civic duty in fashion and I give full credit to People magazine.
I arrived at the courthouse with a smile and blisters from running two miles in clogs, and found two lines that ran the length of the building.
It was obvious that one line represented those reporting for jury duty and the other for those in need of a jury.
Being that I have a tendency to stereotype, I expected to be able to tell immediately which line was mine.
The unfortunate line - those who'd experienced momentary lapses of judgment - would surely be recognized by their pierced and dyed skin, frantic aura of hopelessness, and the blatant fashion "No-No's" featured every month in People, which were the sign or perhaps the cause of their life of lawlessness.
The other line would consist of Sunday school teachers, well-meaning shop owners, and ordinary people like me.
But I couldn't tell.
The suits were in both lines.
The wild-eyed fidgeters were on both sides.
And I must admit, both sides had good hair.
Both lines held people who appeared to have the potential to come unhinged at any moment.
I chose the shorter one.
Not only was I the only one in line who was smiling, but I had an obvious aura of eagerness about me, much like a puppy waiting for someone to rub his belly.
I don't deny it.
I was excited, by golly.
I was here to serve my country, my eyelashes had no clumps, and this time it wasn't me the cop caught speeding.
I was ready to make a difference - as long as it only took one day because I had a hair appointment the next day.
I'm all for serving my duty, but it took me six months to get that appointment and I wouldn't miss it if I had a horrible car accident on the way and they had to use my hairdresser's electrical outlet to charge the paddles to restart my heart.
I'm getting my roots done.
So I waited patiently in line, hoping my butt didn't look big in those pants since I was on the busiest corner in downtown morning commute traffic, trying to talk to the tall woman with the unusually large adam's apple who obviously did not want to be bothered, even if I was going to ask who did her highlights.
Finally we got in and they put us in another room to sit and wait.
I headed to the back of the room, like the long line of Baptists before me, and found myself staring at the back of everyone's head, happy to report that the majority of Americans (I can safely say that since this was a random sample of the population) wash behind their ears.
That's when it struck me that I was sitting in a random sample of my community - a statistician's heaven.
Here was my opportunity to create my own unending list of stats for my speeches whereupon (is that still a word?) I could say with confidence, "1 out of every 10 Americans" with credibility and truth.
As irony would have it, I couldn't think of good consumer questions to ask, like buying habits or spending motivations, but whether 1 out of every 10 Americans does in fact prefer Crest over the leading brand.
Have you ever noticed that the clock stops ticking in a jury room? And every minute can feel like ten when you're staring ahead and trying not to make eye contact? The excitement was starting to wear off.
We were supposed to start at 8:30 and it was 8:55 and we hadn't moved and I had already counted the ceiling tiles twice, dug around my purse for a forgotten piece of chocolate (as if), and planned my escape route should a wayward felon seeking revenge come bursting into our room.
Would I drop and play dead, or stand up and profess my faith, willing to take a bullet from the hooded guy who held up a pawn shop? By 9:02 I was wondering if the sales manual would refer to this room full or jurors as a networking opportunity.
Jury duty is a great place to watch people - like the guy whose monogrammed pocket protector spelled Herb, who rapidly scribbled notes on every word the clerk said, and kept asking her to rewind the jury duty video because he didn't catch that last line.
Yep, he was shoved in a locker more than once.
And the beefy guy beside him who was sound asleep - probably tired from shoving Herb in the locker.
There was the impatient woman who sighed every three minutes as if to remind us all that there were seventy-five other places she needed to be, each of which was infinitely more important than ours.
And the sweet little old lady who had nowhere else to go and would we like some of her homemade fudge she got up an extra hour early to make? There was the pasty bald guy with the twitch who looked like he was going to pass out at any moment and the young bling-covered kid wearing headphones and bobbing his head, either to Mendelssohn's Concerto in G, or Pimp Your Mamma, the instrumental version.
The guy who glared as if daring anybody to talk to him, and the one who whipped out his Bible resulting in an immediate ten-foot clearance as people fled from him like he had typhoid fever and just coughed without covering his mouth.
And not to forget the sweet little man who parked in the spot marked Reserved because he thought it was reserved for him - bless his heart - and the one who sat there for five hours before he realized he was there on the wrong day.
And the one who kept trying to prove to the clerk that he had a mental disability and should be excused, when it was quite obvious the lady beside me who was talking to her purse had the true disability.
It seemed that I was the only normal person there, which explains why nobody commented on my cute clogs except for the lady talking to her purse who tried to pet them.
If that was a jury of my peers, then I need to move.
And please explain to me the logic behind the clerk's announcement: Anyone who does not speak English may now be excused.
The same logic obviously that is behind the sign that says No Seeing Eye Dogs.
There was the whole having to pee incident that happened at 9:13.
Not the most life-threatening dilemma, but a typical example of how I can take the mundane and beat it to death.
I had already planned my morning accordingly to allow for several stops before getting to the courthouse.
I didn't drink anything after 7am, just to be sure.
But now it it's 9:13 and I'm wondering if I should go despite the fact that I don't have to.
But what if I go now and they call my number? What if I can't hear them over the flush and everybody is in the jury room wondering what happened to number 342 and they have to page me and call in the dogs who follow the scent of Suave and lead everyone to stall number one - which for the record, is supposed to be the cleanest one because people always avoid the first one thinking it will be the most used, so it turns out to be the least used, until we start spreading the word at which point the theory dies, and maybe that's happened already because I've told a LOT of people.
No, I shouldn't go now.
I should wait.
But what if I sit here only to find they aren't going to call my number for another hour and then I really have to go but then I can't go because surely they will be close to calling my number then? What if I don't go at all and I'm sitting in the jury box missing everything they're saying because my bladder has ruptured and I'm too scared to interrupt and I vote for convicting the guy because it will be faster? I decided to go and felt that my decision was the right one.
I returned in three minutes and found that nothing had occurred in my absence.
So I just sat there and experienced that rare feeling of having absolutely nothing to do but sit and be.
It occurred to me that I couldn't remember the last time I sat like this and really felt my own existence.
No emails to answer, no laundry, no fishing a toy out of a toilet.
Nothing to do but sit, relax, breathe, and get in touch with my inner core.
Turns out there's not much to my inner core and by 9:30 I had determined that sitting is overrated.
And then it happened.
Just kidding.
Nothing happened.
For two hours.
Not a bleep.
For three hours, for four hours.
Nothing but a couple of breaks and then more waiting.
In our fast-paced world of technology and craziness, we were all forced to go into an adult time-out - to sit in a quiet room, stare at a stone wall as we acted out our civic duty, and then go home.
And even the day held no shouts for justice or re-enacted scenes from Twelve Angry Men -even though I did not get to carve a cadaver or hold up a spec of dust under a light bulb - I still came away from that experience a little different than when I went in.
Being in that room reminded me that sometimes people aren't what they seem - turns out Mr.
Bling with the headphones was listening to motivational tapes and the little old fudge lady was once an erotic dancer in Des Moines.
I was reminded that we live in a place where people come together in the face of crisis, no matter what we look like or our views on capital punishment -someone slips in the hallway and we all run to help.
And I was reminded that even in something as dreary as jury duty, there's always a funny side.
You just have to know where to look.