But the damn bag won’t cooperate. I try to pull it apart a couple of times, fail, then snarl in anger and yank on the damn thi—
The little candies explode like a rainbow grenade. Some of them end up on the floor; most clatter around on my desk. I swipe those up and shove them into my mouth. Then I bend down to pick up the ones on the floor. We have janitors, but it’s my mess.
After I grab all the contaminated candy and toss it into the trash, I park my butt back at my desk. The second my eyes fall on my laptop screen, horror sucker-punches me so hard I actually gasp.
Microsoft Excel is not responding
If you start or close the program, it will try to recover your information.
? Restart the program
? Close the program
? Wait for the program to respond
“No! Oh, no, no, no, no…”
I click on “Wait for the program to respond” repeatedly. The error pop-up stays.
Why is it not going away? Does this mean my computer understood I’m going to wait or what? The engineers who designed Excel should’ve created a special alert that reassures panicked users that the “Wait for the program to respond” option has been chosen and the program will respond. The lack of such a feature is incredibly user-unfriendly!
Time slows. I gnaw on my nails, my eyes glued to the damned pop-up that refuses to go away. How long does it take before Excel deigns to respond?
I pull out my phone. There are more texts, probably from Rick, but I don’t have the bandwidth for them. I open the timer app, go to the stopwatch tab and immediately hit start. The numbers on the screen whir past.
Please! God, oh please!
Two minutes. Three. Four…
…Ten minutes.
Panicked bitterness wells up, choking me. If the program hasn’t responded after ten minutes, it isn’t going to magically start now.
I give it another five minutes. Just in case.
Nothing.
Now all my hope is on this phrase: If you start or close the program, it will try to recover your information.
Don’t you fucking fail me, Microsoft!
I force-close the program, then immediately restart it. I clasp my hands together in a desperate prayer, my eyes squeezed shut.
Please recover the file. Please, please, please! I’ll sacrifice my left little toe.
The tension around my shoulders eases as Excel shows a recovered file in the left-hand pane. I click on it. Then press my hands to my mouth so I don’t shriek with frustrated rage.
Screw you, computer! Screw you, life!
The damned program didn’t recover the latest version. It recovered one from over an hour ago.
I look down at my phone. Eleven fifty-nine p.m.
In less than a minute, it’s going to be Saturday. I was supposed to have an awesome job interview and hopefully make it to the surprise getaway to Lake Tahoe—not get stuck in the office, wrestle with Excel, break up with my boyfriend via text or have Excel crash and burn, forcing me to redo at least an hour’s worth of work.
My fingers shake with fury and frustration. The lack of sleep over the last several weeks has left my head full of sludge. The gears in my brain refuse to turn, despite the fact that I had a huge latte less than two hours ago.
Whatever control I try to hang on to slips away. In its wake, a murderous rage erupts.