The other day I drove Stuart’s truck to work so that I could pick up this beautiful desk and chair set:
He has a big red truck that I have to jump into, even when I’m wearing my heels that boost me up all the way to 5’4″. I get many looks when I drive this thing around – admiring ones in Polk County, and strange ones everywhere else.
Even with the seat pulled all the way up to the steering wheel and adjusted to as high as it will go, I still have to crane my neck to see out the window. I’m sure I look ridiculous. I’m not the world’s best driver to begin with, and I’ve come to terms with that, and Stuart is fully aware of that fact. So why he seems to have no qualms about me driving his truck is beyond me. So, I maintain that this is not my fault. Not completely anyway:
Those yellow poles at the drive-thru really can just jump right out in front of you.
I was going through the drive-thru at the bank (depositing a check for him, by the way), and on the way in I lightly tapped the passenger side mirror against a pole. So, on the way out, I thought I’d be good and really concentrate on moving over so I wouldn’t hit that mirror again. So I turn the wheel slightly to the left as I’m pulling out, and cue the sickening scrape. I slowly pivot my head towards the driver side mirror, which is a whole lot closer to the window than it was when I started. “Phew,” I think. “Just hit the mirror again.” Until I get to the Moe’s parking lot and jump the four feet out of the truck, and when I land see the above sight. (The picture is a recreation in Paint – I was so flustered I forgot to take a picture). I frantically motioned Stratton and Dianne over, hoping one of them had a magic wand or a rewind button or something that would make everything instantly better. “Do you think Magic Eraser will fix it?” I asked. “It fixes everything! It’s Magic!” They didn’t seem to think that would work. Stratton’s boyfriend said WD-40 and a microfiber cloth would take it off, so I debated whether I should just try that and hope for the best and maybe Stuart would never find out!
But then I had a momentary flashback to the day I got my driver’s license. I was by myself and trying to maneuver my dad’s Buick LeSabre into the garage. The thing was a freaking boat, and the front end was enormous. I miscalculated, clipping the side of the garage on the way in. I freaked, but was able to rub the scrape completely off the front bumper. I thought I could get away with not telling my dad, but I’m an awful liar and ended up confessing. Good thing, because I hadn’t even thought to check out the state of the garage:
I think he might have noticed something. So, having learned my lesson, I brought the truck by the fire station where he was working, and ‘fessed up. I was able to get a good portion of it off, but not all of it, so it did look a little better. He took it well – not that I was expecting him to beat me or something, but he reacted just like my dad did, saying it was just an accident, not a big deal, and at least no one was hurt. It didn’t turn out to be a big deal, he got the rest of the paint off and popped the little dent out, and even let me drive the truck again. So I guess all’s well that ends well, and I love our new table!
