A few years ago, when we first moved to Indianapolis and were living in a one-bedroom apartment with a dog and belongings that had filled a three-bedroom house, I was unemployed. Sure, I freelanced for the local newspaper’s publication aimed at Gen-X and Y-ers (God, I hated that kind of work), but I was bringing in grocery money, not a real paycheck. Having an unemployed person in a marriage that is used to having two gainfully employed people can be… stressful. We argued a lot. One Saturday morning, we got into an argument, and I went to pull my car out from our carport. The next thing I heard was SMASH. And my front bumper, headlights, corner panel and door were crushed by the pole.
Of course, because of the aforementioned unemployment issue and the fact that my car was paid off, we had dropped down to liability coverage only, and the resulting many-thousands-of-dollars of damage was financed from our savings account. That bit the big one, but eventually my husband recovered enough to make jokes about the whole incident.
Yesterday, I met him for lunch, an unexpected and awesome treat because we work on totally different sides of town. He had a job interview around the corner from my workplace (keepyourfingerscrossedohpleaseohpleaseohplease), and we met at a sports bar/burger joint before he had to head back to his workplace. After an enjoyable meal, we headed down to my car in the parking garage so I could drive him to his car in a different garage and then back to my workplace parking garage.
As I was pulling out of the parking spot, he made a joke about not hitting any poles, and I immediately took offense. A person makes one mistake, I said with outrage, and she’s branded for life.
I should have opened my mouth a little wide to accommodate my foot. Because less than five minutes later, as I was pulling into my own parking garage, a little gray Honda piloted by a young woman careened around a corner, forcing me to choose between hitting her head on or sideswiping a pole.
I chose the pole. And crunched up the side of my new car. Thankfully, a co-worker suggested nail polish remover, which made the crunchiness look a lot better but also forced me to realize that there was, in fact, crunchiness and not just a scratch. The other driver? Did Not Stop. Sarcastic thanks to her. Real thanks go to to my little girl who held the cotton balls and handed me new ones to dip in nail polish remover as I tried to minimize the damage. You rock, Angel Face! (Still no decision on the name, though I’m closer!)
If I hadn’t had the past history with poles, I think I could have gotten away with just telling my husband, reporting it to insurance and that would be that. But the previous experience means he’s pretty angry with me.
I think it’s punishment for spending 15 minutes yesterday morning figuring out what our new combined income would be if he got this job and speculating whether or not I could drop down to part time or whether we could have another baby right away. Karma does not like it when you count those chickens first.
If you enjoy the vehicle mishap stories, visit Jennie… though her mishap was totally not her own fault.