Yesterday some fool hit my car as I was driving. I was on a main thoroughfare, in evening traffic, and he was in the left lane, and I was in the right. He tried to get into my lane and rammed into the side of my car. I pulled over immediately and stopped. He kept going, merged into a far right lane to get onto the freeway. He was stopped there waiting to get on. So I jumped out of my car, grabbed my phone, snapped a pic of his license plate. Then I stormed up to his car and said, “Hey! You just hit me!”
He looked like a young 20 something blonde guy—somewhat like the Napoleon Dynamite character. He said, “I’m sorry…” His girlfriend was in the front passenger seat. She was covering her face, scared and embarrassed.
I said, “Ok! But you need to pull over so we can deal with this.”
He said (and I’m not kidding) “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that sir…”
So there you have it. I stormed back to my car and my wife drove us home.
I was lucky I didn’t get run over as I jumped from my car into the street to run up to his car.
My wife said I also left the driver door wide open.
So there must be something looking out for me. Or maybe I have some internal angel GPS or guardian spirit contracted to keep me safe. I could’ve been run over in my attempt to get this guy’s plate number. And it could’ve been someone larger and meaner or someone with a weapon, or something, in that car. But I, fueled with adrenaline and gusto, stormed up and demanded we deal with this scenario immediately.
That’s my hit & run story for the day, year, decade—hopefully. The car was scratched and there’s a dent in the upper left side above the front left wheel. And the rear view mirror was shoved up against the window. Other than that, I believe the car is intact.
I, on the other hand, was sore, my back immediately shot a warning from the lower quadrant, as I got back in the car to drive home. A sharp shooting pain ran up my back muscles. My wife, angel that she is, and highly astute, said she should drive home.
I’m sore, a little creaky, but I can type and I can walk and I can talk and I can take my time on the phone with the insurance company sorting this mess out. I can also drive myself, carefully, to the police or highway patrol station to report this fool.
And then I can go to the doctor and have my body and bones examined. Just to be sure I’m in prime working condition.
What this fender bender got me thinking about was how fragile life really is. I had been on a bad mood bender the past few days. Woe is me. What does my life mean? Where am I headed? How will I make more money? Why is the world so crazy and sad sometimes? You know, the general malaise that runs through our lives every now and then like the fudge swirls in a vanilla fudge sundae.
But this got me thinking—or rather, not thinking—and shoved me into Present Gratitude Mode (PGM). Shut my ass up real quick. Or, to cop a lick from Drake, I went from bitching to gratitude, real quick…real quick…
I had dinner last night with my wife, mother-in-law and daughter. Watched some dumb TV, and felt grateful as a googlywad on a lilypad (huh!?) for my life and the ability to lift a fork to my mouth without assistance.
Your body may not be a temple; it may just be a football stadium; or the corner bodega; but it’s yours. And if it can move in time with your world; if you can sing, and dance, and eat chicken (or jackfruit) with a fork, then consider yourself blessed beyond belief.
And don’t forget to buy one of those cameras that sits in the car and records all this shit in real time. So the next time some Napoleon Dynamite fool hits your car (hopefully never…) you’ve got it in HD video.
Peace and pumpkin pie…
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