I am having a time. That is not to be confused with another Southern colloquialism, which refers to having a “big time.” These two concepts are diametrically opposed to one another.

To the uninitiated, having a “big time” is a good thing. You may have painted the town red or some other representation, depending upon what era you represent.

When I suggest that I am having “a” time, however, suffice it to say that there is some struggle and frustration involved.

The latest situation had to do with my car. Suddenly and without warning, as I pulled into my parking spot at work, I did what I always do as I prepare to exit the vehicle — I reached for the door handle. This time, though, it did not catch. I was immediately rendered a hostage in the driver’s seat.

I immediately flashed back to the jokes I’d heard as a kid living in Texas. They called them “Aggie jokes” because rival teams implied these folks were none-too-bright, like they didn’t have enough sense to come in out of the rain.

Did you hear the one about, they’d usually start, the guy who got locked in his car and needed help because it was starting to rain and the convertible roof was down?

Well, on this recent day I felt like that guy. Except in my case, I was trapped and defenseless ... or forced to climb over the console and exit from the passenger side. 

I almost called a co-worker inside my office, asking him to open my door from the outside.

Luckily I had a lightbulb moment and the presence of mind to roll down the window, reach for the door handle and save myself.

My husband, Ron, later came to my rescue, assuring me that he could fix the problem by finding the right part. The only trouble was it took a few attempts to accomplish that.

In the meantime, everywhere I drove, I’d have to park in a less visible spot so I could open my window, contort my left arm to reach the door handle and hope it worked. Sometimes it did, sometimes it still would not open.

The latter provided some great entertainment, I’m sure. I’d have to straddle the console, navigate around all the “stuff” I tend to have in my car/office and then tumble out of the passenger side like a bag of garbage thrown down a laundry chute.

I was so glad when Ron finally found the needed part, a long cable that would reconnect the door latch.  

Since salvaging my sanity, and thereby rescuing me from imprisonment in my vehicle, I now call him the “cable guy.”

And even though it had also inconvenienced him, at one point he demonstrated not only patience and kindness, but wisdom as well.

“Remember,” he told me, “you’ve got a lot to be thankful for — like a husband who loves you and is working to help you.”

True, true. And hopefully next time I get in a pickle, I will remember what really matters and dwell less on the brief interruptions that are, after all, small stuff.