It probably comes to no surprise to you that I’m a terrible driver. Now that’s not to say I don’t try but an unmedicated driver with ADD and a Bette Midler mix CD laying on the passenger side floor has never resulted with a Harley J. Earl trophy on the living room mantle. This week’s episode was one of my more traumatic experiences. Enjoy!
I live in a quiet (ghost) town with a small population. We’re only an hour away from a major city, a trip I’ve made many times with heightened anxiety and moderate incident. But there was something about the way my bra wasn’t fitting correctly that told me that tonight’s trip was going to be different.
I had been in the car with my old friend the”Service Engine Soon” light for about 20 minutes, when I finally made it onto the highway. I was going, and going, and going, without a care in the world, except for when the Bryan Adams song came on and then things really became touch and go. Other than that, everything was going smoothly. Until I hit some grooved pavement. The resounding clunk and screech of the car’s undercarriage being stripped away and the whiplash immediately sent me into a mental tailspin wondering, “Who could possibly be crossing the highway at this hour?” and “How long will the strap of his overalls remain stuck to my tail pipe?” I looked in the rearview mirror but didn’t see any shoes in my trail. I figured I was probably safe after a few Hail Mary’s and a half of the Lord’s Prayer, (I got distracted, I told you-Bette).
At about 40 minutes into my trip, I’m almost at the home stretch. A few dead rodents on the side of the road and a couple dirty diapers, everything was heading back to normal. Except, wait…what is that? The road began to have a dark red tint to it. At first I thought maybe my eyes were just tired after some schmucko and his purple crap lights of Hyperion was riding my car’s supple bum cheeks, but this was no illusion. My first thoughts were “Oh God, how did this person’s blood get spattered IN FRONT of my car? Maybe someone else got hit by a car and they got dragged too! I wonder if they were friends hitch hiking and one got tired because he has water on the knee and couldn’t keep up?” among other things. I then had more rational thoughts, “Oh…maybe one of my headlights is going bad and turning the road red. Or maybe there’s a signal that get’s set off underneath your car when it’s about to explode?” After much research, the next day I found out it was just a truck that spilt paint, but I though my reasoning was pretty solid.
Homestretch, not that I know what that really feels like, as I am what people refer to as an “indoor girl.” Once at a 5th grade field day, I was up to bat for our softball game and someone shouted “LET’S GO SPORTY SPICE” and every since I’ve turned my back on the cruel, harsh reality of the sports world. I digress. Homestretch and I see my exit is coming up. I notice that the lines indicating that HEY YOU BETTER GO THIS WAY TO GET OFF THE EXIT are rapidly coming towards me, so I merge over to the right to get off the exit. However, duped again, this is no exit. “NO THRU DRIVE” and “EMERGENCY STOPPING ONLY” met me and my car face to face. In a panic I turned my hazard lights on, locked my doors, and looked around. Cars whizzed by. “They all know this isn’t an emergency. I DON’T WANT TO GO TO JAIL.” So I faked it; this is my confession. I sat there wide-eyed and nervously shaking as I chugged the rest of my road Coke I brought with me. Maybe not an emergency to the common man, but when dealing with a great deal of anxiety sometimes carbonated corn syrup is exactly what the quack would prescribe.
I collected myself and merged back onto the highway, only to get off my exit 25 feet front the emergency stopping area. Imagine an audio bite of me sighing with relief. The night went on as planned after that, aside from parallel parking onto a Vespa, (sorry) and asking a hooker for walking directions to the nearest ladies room. Everything had fallen into place.
Well my Sour Patch Childrens, this concludes our evening. I hope you enjoyed this as much as I have. This trip probably would have been a piece of Papa Gino’s for you, but for a person riddled with anxiety, these things become exponentially more of a production. I didn’t even tell you about how I She-Hulked the ladies room door right off the hinges of the city’s most prolific lesbian bar, and when I found a one-person bathroom I couldn’t figure out how to get the door to lock so I dragged the 40lb. trash can to block and distract any intruders.
Okay, that’s my time! Off to dream about strudel and custard!