Oh, crap.
I had just run my car straight over a curb, and the loud clunk that followed ended with my heart in my throat.
Oh, crap.
Before I even had my car in park, or set foot outside to assess the damage, I dialed the man in my life. He didn't ask any questions and was by my side within a matter of minutes, glad to see me and my car all in one piece.
Silently cursing myself for my stupidity, I stared down at two popped tires on the passenger side of my CRV now resting on silver rims, willing them to suddenly re-inflate themselves. The longing to spend the rest of the afternoon catching up on schoolwork, for once free of Spectrum obligations, was quickly snatched away - and it was only my own fault.
With regret, it wasn't long before I realized the careless mistake of running over a curb while driving on a traffic-less road with a speed limit of 15 mph on a Sunday afternoon was probably a long time coming.
Some ominous signs are just a wee bit larger than others. This one was God telling me in big bold letters, "Slow down, Nicole. You're going too fast."
And, I suppose, I have been.
Perhaps annoying minor bumps in the road, like the one I experienced, are merely warning signs that if we don't slow the pace of our lives, the next bump could be much worse. Sometimes we're a bit dense; we need to be shown that we are gradually spiraling out of control toward a potentially life altering, colossal crash.
My warning sign was that my driving skills are not exactly up to par, and frankly, are borderline dangerous. That is because running out of gas over the summer and having to walk two miles to the nearest gas station wasn't enough.
Is that what the optimists mean when they say some things are a "blessing in disguise?"
Even though what I really wanted to do was kick the side of my car and scream at the top of my lungs - Sigmund Freud would say my unconscious "id" was struggling with my "superego" - I decided to take a deep breath and just deal with it.
As mad as we might be at ourselves for making life harder than it should be with dumb mistakes, it does no good to beat ourselves up. We just have to keep muddling on through, learn from them and move on.
There is always the hope that next time we won't be so dimwitted.
My mother's life mantra, "suck it up," echoed through my mind. It is particularly useful when you're on the verge of a pity party. Shit happens, none of us are immune to it - we just need to be flexible and take it as it comes.
Speaking to people from all walks of life while writing for The Spectrum has taught me that everyone has their cross to bear. Although it seemed dire at the time, two flat tires are of little importance in the larger scheme of things. I should be so lucky if it is the only stressful situation I will ever face.
On the plus side, my "damsel in distress" moment allowed me to learn how to change a tire and I was able to add some new words to my vocabulary - I can't wait to use "lug nut" in a sentence.
The people who came to my aid amassed a small army, and there is no better feeling than that. And when you say you have a car story, everyone else's car story comes pouring out.
One fellow editor failed his driving test four times, and still has yet to get it. Another popped four tires going over a median in a parking lot on a Saturday night. A friend left a pair of work boots on the top of his car and remembered they were there only after they fell off in the middle of the thruway.
We all have our blooper moments, and our only consolation is to walk away from it a wiser person. I learned the hard way that it doesn't pay to rush - doing too much at once is eventually going to catch up with you.
That evening I sat down to open a fortune cookie, only to have it pop out of the wrapping and shatter when it hit the ground. The wrapping read, "There is in the worst of fortunes the best chance of a happy ending."
So I guess the moral of the story is when life gets tough, you get new rims, and drive off into the sunset with your knight in shining armor.
Photo: Courtesy of Laron Fomby
