If I had known in that moment that the cheap, under-chilled excuse for chardonnay would be my last, the rebirth would not have occurred. More specifically, if I had planned for it to be my last, then it simply would not have been, as no such pre-planning ever materialized into reality. In this instance, the not knowing made what happened next possible.

I left the nail salon a known quantity. A collection of organized cells, objectives, accomplishments, and regrets. A woman who could tell you her future because it looked like her past.

But something else was at work. The superficial normalcy of the day—the utter lack of any plan beyond completing my checklist—belied the workings of an old magic I had completely forgotten. The not knowing allowed me to slip into a wormhole that had been carefully positioned for me on my way back to the office—invisible to everyone, invisible to me.

I got in my car, fished around my bag for a stick of gum, and pulled out of the salon parking area to head back to the office. My movements were routine, automatic, and well-rehearsed. I’d made this drive so many times, I didn’t have to think.

In a matter of minutes, I would drive the four blocks to the parking garage buried under my building. After taking the right into the garage, I would wind my SUV down one, down two, down three or more flattened, neckless layers of the parking deck.

I would then grab my black leather bag, heavy with laptop and files, and take the garage elevator to the massive, six-story marble lobby of my building, where my thoughts would drift and mingle with the fifty buzzy phone calls and notification pings that filled the air. I would then click my high heels to the bank of twelve elevators waiting to deposit me on the thirty-something floor just in time for my 2:30 p.m. client call. A call I would take from my private office while peering through the floor-to-ceiling windows into the darkening sky at the circling birds all the glassed-in faces staring out.