Disaster

It's setting in.

The nauseous feeling.

The upset.

The pissed off.

The really, really, fucking pissed off.

I fucked up my car today.

OK, fucked up is maybe too harsh for what happened.

It's still driveable.

I can still walk.

I hit no one.

I hit no other car.

I fucking hit the corner.

The corner you say?

The corner of a pole.

I do a 3- point turn to get into our assigned space behind home.

It's covered--we appreciate not having to shovel snow or get drenched in the rain.

It's near the trash. We don't likey.

And it's sandwiched between some lady who parks horrendously (is afraid of the CORNER of the pole touching her car--now I see why).

And a beautiful brand new beam-ma-ma.

And so I back out of the spot and do a 3-point turn to depart.

I'm used to this.

It's been years.

Yeeeears.

And so. I back up. And there are 2 beam-ma-ma's behind us. I always hope nothing ever happens to their cars. I take care in backing up.

Lately? I haven't been paying super close attention to backing up. I can feel that it's been enough time to cut the wheel. I realize this is unacceptable and I remind myself of that today.

I did NOT back into their cars. Instead, while in my head, I decided to look ahead, look straight ahead at the right hand turn I would take for the umpteenth time.

Crunch.

CRUNCH, people.

Crunch.

Off to the collision repair shop at lunch I go.

Fighting back tears, I call them on my way to work.

I'm the girl who opened the glove compartment at the light I would turn left at for the umpteenth time, searching. I had tons of papers from past trips to the dealer. I was the girl in a rage trying to find it.

The sticky.

The yellow sticky slick car dude who escorts me to my serviced car at the dealer many times gave me when I squawked at the ding. The DING that I had made with the end of an umbrella putting it into the trunk.

The sticky that now taunts me.

I call the number. Tears are burning the back of my throat.

Get it together, I tell myself.

Get it together.

Jessica, she says her name is.

JESSICA! I need to come in--appointment--car. SCRAPE.

No appointment needed.

I ask if I can come at lunch.

Yes.

I ask if they're going to order shiny new somethings for my car.

I ask to come at lunch.

She wants me to stop talking, to hang up.

I am the girl who honked at you when you didn't put a blinker on in a bottle neck and debated whehter or not a trip to Dunkin Donuts was better than driving properly. I honked and then laughed at myself.

They will stare and see maniac driver. Maniac driver with a wheel well and 1/2 a passenger door scraped. A small piece of metal mangled.

I looked so quickly. Maybe it's not bad. Maybe.

I turn my right side mirror down. I can't see anything. Is it supposed to look like that?

I pull into the parking lot at work. I park in the last row. I will not wear my shame publicly unless it's to the strangers that pass me on the highway, the backroads, those that will see the car in our space at home.

I park and I sit and then I go face the disaster.

Get a grip. It's not Cancer.

But it will be expensive.