Baker: An angel at the ATM?

It is 7 a.m. on a frosty December morning. I step out on my front porch to retrieve a package. Wearing my usual chic, pre-shower ensemble (ancient eyeglasses, black sweats, a too-tight tee shirt bearing the affirmation “I deserve a standing ovation,” accented with white athletic socks and a pair of sandals), I wave at my neighbor, Eula Mae, who is loading her kids into the car to drop them off at school. Even at that hour, she looks fresh as a daisy. I hope my appearance doesn’t startle her too much.

Next, I make a quick dash for the corner ATM. Feeling grouchy as well as disheveled, I continue the December Litany that fills every minute of my life in this season of supposed joy and peace: how the heck am I going to get everything done in time — the shopping, cookies, wrapping? By the time I grab my cash out of the slot, I’ve worked myself into a Grinch-y snit.