Ugly Volvo Wednesdays

Crazy B*tch (Memoirs of a Lemon Lover In Recovery)uglyvolvo[1]

 

Chapter 27—All That Glitters…Is Not Always Seen Right Away

I am not sure if it was the bruise, or my delivery technique, but my mom nearly made coffee come out her nose. I dropped my nightie and continued with preparing my breakfast. I had a chiropractor’s appointment, and hopefully, I got all of my desire to moon people out of my system.

At the chiropractor, I explained to him exactly why I might be concerned I re-injured myself. I also shared with him the whole ‘moon your mom’ moment I had earlier that day. After he stopped laughing he said, “if it had been me, I would have totally let her believe she ran me over—I would have sued her!” This comment confused both Sane, and Not Sane Elsa. On the one hand, Sane Elsa reasoned, behaving that way would be giving into a spiteful and vindictive rage—why would the chiropractor encourage that? On the other hand, Not-Sane-Elsa reasoned, behaving that way is only logical, because after all, it was her actions that caused all of your personal injuries.   I remained befuddled by this moral dilemma throughout my chiropractor adjustment.

After he was done inspecting my injuries, and realigning my spine, the chiropractor totally back-pedalled on his original comments. “Forrest Gump is right—‘Stupid is as stupid does’. You did the right thing, it is just a shame they let stupid people drive. However, if you really think about it, people like her–in the grander scheme of things–is kind of like job security for me!”  Not Sane Elsa realized at that point she could really go for a guy like that chiropractor.

The more I thought about that ice cream scarfing moron, the angrier I got. How dare she be so stupid, and yet licensed to drive! I thought about the lengths that were taken to ensure I would be a good driver, and the trials I over-came that served to ensure I was indeed a capable and safe driver. Not Sane Elsa seethed over the injustice of it all. Sane Elsa, the sap, just went on and on about how lucky we were to be so strong and capable (blah blah blah).

I think, given the nature of the bruising on certain specific areas on my body, I was even more predisposed to being a cranky driver than usual. Driving (or any activity that involved sitting) had literally become a pain in the ass. This also made me mad. Thanks to that fat idiot, my ability to enjoy driving had been compromised. Not Sane Elsa had steam coiling out of her ears, and Sane Elsa just wrung her hands and revelled in the gratitude for her mother not being present to witness such behaviour.

To add to my crankiness, people were driving like idiots—or more like idiots than usual. Three different cars just pulled in front of me as if I wasn’t even there. As if that wasn’t enough, two different cars nearly broad sided me while trying to change lanes. In every circumstance, the drivers seemed genuinely surprised to see me. It was enough to drive an already cranky person postal. “Am I FUCKING invisible?!” I screamed at no one in particular.

I just didn’t get it, why was it that no one really saw me? How could you miss a shiny, clean gold car? People were so stupid! I was bruised and tired and I just wanted to go home. The world was filled with people who had it far easier than I ever did—and they were all driving like assholes! In my rage, I suddenly realized exactly why my dad behaved like he did when other drivers enraged him. It was starting to make so much sense. Why should people use “stupid” as an excuse for not being held accountable for their behaviour. My dad was on to something—maybe he could cure the world of jackasses—one person at time. Sane Elsa winced and started simpering something about nothing good coming from this kind of thinking. Not Sane Elsa, on the other had, started playing a kind of “whack-a-mole” with Sane Elsa. Not Sane Elsa really wanted me to follow this train of thought. It was then when it hit me.

I looked up in my rear-view mirror and saw the surprised face of the driver behind me. I was stopped at a light, and while the person behind me saw the light turn red, she didn’t exactly see me in front of her, and while she was decelerating, she used my car to come to a complete stop. The back of my head stung like it had been slapped by a big hand. I pulled over to the nearest parking lot and the car behind me followed suit. I got out of my car went to look at my bumper. There was a scuff mark and a crack—shit! The lady who hit me came up behind me and asked if I was okay.

I said I was, even though I wasn’t really qualified to comment. This lady apologized profusely. She went on and on about how she just didn’t see me right at first. She seemed a little smarter than the ice cream eating bozo, but still—how did she not see me? Sane Elsa somehow managed to survive the whole ‘whack-a-mole’ experience, and was now urging me to be polite and non-confrontational. Not Sane Elsa was locked into something of a stunned silence.

Sane Elsa prevailed, and I managed to thank the lady for her cooperation, and personal information. Deep down I was sighing. I had to go back to the chiropractor tomorrow, and likely I would be expected to resume the routine of regular rehab appointments. I would have to deal with the auto insurance company again—more appointments, more sitting on my bruised butt recounting the events of this collision that shouldn’t have happened in the first place. Gahhhh! Just wait until my dad heard about this!

 

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