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It’s more that I sometimes not always have full control of my feelings, and I was pissed and angry and back home on the 101, it’s perfectly normal to let your anger out by tailing someone back while going ninety miles an hour.
Okay, maybe not normal, but I haven’t been killed yet, so there’s that.
So I gunned it.
Andimmediatelyhit black ice.
Karma’s a fucking bitch.
With my heart rate finally calming to a far reasonable cadence, I push open the driver’s side door…
And it doesn’t budge.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”
I slam my shoulder into the door this time, as if the force of my body will help unjam the door, but it’s of no use.
It’s stuck.
“What the hell, Geraldine?” I mumble.
Yes, I named my car.
Right now, I have two choices.
Either I can take all my shit off the passenger seat and toss it in the back to get out the passenger door, or I can finagle my body into the back and exit that way.
Everything on the passenger seat is placed in the best position possible for my eighteen hour road trip home. How none of it budged in all the round-and-around activity is beyond me but I’m thankful because I’d rather not re-configure the suitcase, backpack, and cooler.
I was never all that great at Tetris.
Looks like I’m crawling out the back.
I reach between my seat and the door to press the powered position button and I move backward, inch by very slow inch.
“Is it always this pokey?” I ask, as if the car will respond.
Finally, I feel like I have enough room between the steering wheel and seat to not-so-gracefully crawl into the back.
And, assuming the rear driver’s side door is in the same state as the front, I exit from the passenger side.
I’m barely upright as a truck pulls to the side of the road. Briefly, I fear it’s the guy I pissed the karma gods off with–because that’s how my luck runs–but while this truck is also black, it isn’t lifted.
Like myself, he’d been traveling westbound. I wonder if it’s illegal to pull over on a highway in the wrong direction? Surely it’s not.
“You all right?” the man calls out as he opens the door. “Saw you go down…”
Shrugging, I lift my voice to answer, “Me? I believe so. The car? I haven’t gotten around to assessing.”
Tugging my long sleeves to my palms, I hold the ribbing in place as I cross my arms under my chest. At least I’d had the foresight to put on comfy clothes for driving so I’m not in the slacks and satin blouse I wore to my interview.
Although now that I have an audience of one fine looking specimen of a man donning a cowboy hat, I’m not so sure I’m thrilled to be in his graces while wearing sweatpants from the men’s section.
They’re only a little baggy on me but would probably swallow that man’s bottom half whole.
And he’s not skinny, by any means.
There isn’t much snow on the ground but what white stuff there is finds its way to the mesh in my tennis shoes. Gosh, I hate wet socks.
