Where everything is a comedy of errors, and you can either laugh or cry.
Where you forget your debit card, and don't pack your lunch, and go for a run on your lunchbreak with a couple of Two Degrees bars from Klout in your hoodie pocket, and come back to find your building evacuating.
Where you make conversation with high-powered executives awash in a sea of underboob-sweat in a grungy sweatshirt, your nice sweater and cool beverage and (for all intents and purposes) self-esteem in a bag under your desk inside, waiting for the firefighters to give the all-clear.
Possibly even where you find yourself in the surreal position of directing a uniformed crew to remove the excrement of waterfowl tracked back into the building by the throng of employees who cut across the lawn (because riverfront locations have their price, in lots of ways).
Because tonight is a Festive Occasion.
The kind of day where you need to get home on-time to pick up your family, but realize you've locked your keys in your vehicle.
Where you win the respect and suspicion of one of the maintenance guys by standing by as he gallantly attempts to jimmy the lock on your vehicle for you (instead of just handing you the coat hanger you'd asked for), and then taking the hanger and his switchblade from him and showing him how it's done, and are only fifteen minutes late.
And maybe it all culminates in you, and your family, disembarking from a newly-restored trolley, chartered by the company to take everyone around viewing the holiday lights, with your second husband complaining that the lighting ceremony wasn't all that and the oldest kid perseverating on the meaning of every word out of the tourguide's mouth at the top of his lungs, and all of you running into a guy you had a crush on as an undergrad. And you look up at him and say "John Smith? Seriously?" and he goes "Never. Never seriously," and you introduce yourself, but he already remembers, and you realize that you'd been right when you concluded a couple of years too late that he'd fancied you back, and is as sincere as you are insincere in saying "you look great."
Your self of fifteen years ago will swell up with pride. Your family won't give a shit.
Your minor triumph of time-travel notwithstanding, the seven-year-old will have an epic kicking, screaming, over-sugared tantrum on the way back to the parking deck. Halfway home you'll resolve to never take anyone anywhere EVER AGAIN, and mean it. You'll alternately pity yourself, laugh into your sleeve, and marvel at the series of near-misses, and dead ends, and stumbles that got you behind the wheel of a minivan, fer fuck's sake, and it'll all be that much more tragic, and therefore that much funnier. Later, over pizza, your husband will explain to the ten-year-old that all humor is based in human suffering.
At the end of the day you won't care as much about the boob-sweat.