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Wednesday sucked. It consisted of a torrential downpour, my contact disintegrating in my eye forcing me to wear my glasses, and hitting a parked car.

The last in that small litany was my first accident ever, and while I was only traveling at a mere 3.2 mi./hour, I still managed to inflict enough damage to warrant me sticking around, talking to the owner, exchanging pertinent information, and naturally crying. Because that’s how I handle stressful situations apparently. I blubber like an idiot for 10 minutes, call Sis, Mom or Dad who tell me to stop – that it’s not the end of the world (even though clearly it is) – and finally pull myself together enough to move on – sort of. See, I tend to be slightly melodramatic sometimes.

Example: Whenever I see a cop car, I blanch and have to swallow the golf ball that lodges in my esophagus. It’s an involuntary reaction whose origins trace to the pit of my stomach, kind of like that first second of a roller coaster’s drop – where if you’re going to puke, that would be the time it happens. This reaction bubbles up every time I see a cop on the road – whether I’m passenger or driver – when this occurs in our carpool moments, BinLaw (who obviously is always the driver…obviously) thinks I’m crazy. “It’s not like you have a stash of drugs in your hand KT. You’re not doing anything wrong. Relax,” he says. But it doesn’t matter – without fail, I feel like a criminal and my physical reaction/appearance adjust to reflect this.

But I digress…so Wednesday night, I leave the gym, running a little late to get my hair cut. I’m parked next to a huge yellow handicap van that takes up most of its space and part of mine. Because I’m in my glasses, it’s humid, and I’m sweaty, they fog up, but I clean them off as I prepare to reverse – hoping I don’t side-swipe the van in the process. I take off my emergency brake, drift back, give a little gas – and CRACK…my bumper crunches into the passenger side door of the illegally parked car behind me. Though it doesn’t matter that she was illegally parked because as my insurance agent informed me, “If a child is jay-walking and you hit the child, it doesn’t matter that if they hadn’t been walking illegally you wouldn’t have hit them – you still hit them and thus it’s your fault.” A simple “no,” would have sufficed considering my only question was, “does it matter she was parked illegally?”

So now, my idiocy will cost my bank account a cool $800.

And yes that sinking lodged golf ball feeling has taken up permanent residence in the back of my throat. Even though this “apparently” happens to “everyone” and it’s just a “life lesson” from which I “have to learn.” Blerg.

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