To say I'm a poor driver is an understatement. To suggest my license poses a threat to humanity is a little more like it.
It's been about four months since my last fender-bender, so this quarter's run-in was due and came this morning around 9:00 a.m. I told my brother Gentzy about the wreck as soon as I got in to work. Without missing a beat he said, "Consistency is good. Predictability is comforting."
After slamming into the back of the Honda on State Street (100 percent my fault), three things shot out of my purse:
1. Lip gloss
3. My cell phone
Great. Now I'm 16. I didn't even know that stuff was in there. (Lie.)
After hiding my teen-bop contraband, I cautiously got out of the car, waiting for the verbal spanking of a lifetime. I saw the driver turn around in his seat and check on a little person in the back.
Great. Now I'm a baby-killer.
The man got out of his car, waring a jean shirt, classic Levi's, hair down to his waist and a giant, "don't worry be happy" smile. This angel, brought to me on a cloud of denim and patchouli, not only assured me several times that no harm had been done, but patiently waited for me to find my policy number while his gorgeous, biracial (great. Now I'm racist) three-year-old bounced in and out of the car, no car seat to be seen.
We exchanged information, and as I drove away, I saw him raise an arm out of the corner of my eye.
Great. The middle finger.
Nope. A giant, nice-to-meet you wave. And then he floated away. Back to God.
As for his policy number? Well Gentzy and I have our suspicions of it actually being the date of the Apocalypse, slipped to me as a warning. But you'll have to wait for 2012: The Squeakual to find out for sure.