From the moment my dad taught me to drive, I've always loved it. The freedom, the control, it's a perfect blend. Even in my crappiest of cars, it's something I took to immediately.
Last Friday I had a bit of an accident. My current commute involves a lot of construction, and a significant portion of it is through "state minimum width" roads. As in the roads cannot be any narrower, legally.
I'm no fan of driving in the dark. The lights of other cars blind me, but surprisingly that's getting better. My astigmatism, according to my doctor, is actually improving. She predicts in the next year or so it will be gone, and that will only improve my night driving. Weird. But a few too many years in the future to help me now.
So a large truck, speeding across the bridge, was over the line into my lane. The choice was to be sideswiped, or to veer into the construction cones. I smacked a cone with my passenger mirror. The mirror, thank god, folded into the window. But the decorative cap flew off and smacked the window. It startled me so badly that I screamed. And am stunned the window didn't crack. The cap, knowing my luck, either shattered or bounced off into the river. Either way, not a great way to start the morning.
I spent a lot of time on Friday working through the problem, calling the service, then parts, then body shop, of our dealership. All great guys. All of whom made it clear, one way or another, that they'd have rather talked to my husband.
My mistake, mine to fix. My father raised me to take care of myself, to drive, to parallel park, to not need to be taken care of. (That I'm incredibly well taken care of is truly just a fluke. I think many people are surprised that I didn't end up a crazy, single, cat lady.) So some frustration. At one point I actually said "I'm confident that the only part missing is the cap, but if it makes you feel better, I'll pretend to take this fax home to my husband, and I'll call you back in the morning."
Other things happened on Friday. Stressful work things, a trust betrayal, a computer fluke, enough that I could feel the anxiety, physically, coursing through my veins.
One of my tells, when I'm truly drunk, is that the sugar in alcohol makes my cheeks hurt and my teeth numb. Which explains the text I sent Yvette that night. "I can't feel my teeth." My coping skills are crap.
I left work early and went to the body shop this afternoon. Stomped in on my highest heels, offered my hand to the manager, and introduced myself. They put on the cap, I paid my bill, it's a done deal. I don't need penis in order to take care of my car.
No point to any of this really. I just get frustrated. I truly, truly love to drive. There are two parts of my commute, that perhaps once a month there's a perfect confluence of events that I can open up my car and make her do what she's meant to. It's beautiful. Those moments are too few and far between. I need to find more of those moments. On and off the road.