Blue Egg On My Face
Early one Fall morning, I hurried out of the shower, threw on my clothes and rushed to the grocery, not bothering to dry my hair or put on my usual makeup. It’s early, I thought, I won’t see anyone I know.
Not to be outdone, fate caused a chilly wind to blow as I raced through the parking lot. The breeze not only dried my hair, but also coifed it into that of a wild woman.
Ignoring my usual vanity, I raced through the produce department, grabbing this and that. No sooner had I started than a voice over the PA system requested, “Would the driver of a Blue Honda Fit, with a Purple Heart license plate number XXXX please come to Customer Service.”
Blue Honda Fit, Purple Heart License plate—pretty blamed specific—my car! Had someone hit it? What? I parked my grocery basket and headed to Customer Service. On the way, I decided there was no reason to go all the way to Customer Service, but to go straight to my car. That’s where the problem existed.
I bustled towards my car, noticing two men standing behind it. I rushed up. “What’s the problem?”
“Is this your car?” The first man asked.
“Yes, why? Is there a problem?”
“No, I don’t have a problem,” he said, “but this guy does.” He pointed to the person standing next to him.
“Okay, what is it?”
I looked at my car—and the car in front of it.
The car in front of it? …. What?
Lightening flashed. Although my small car was well within the lines of the parking space, the second man’s car, parked in front of mine—faced the same direction as mine, but nose to nose to a very large pickup truck parked on the other aisle.
Land-locked.
The lanes were long, and both our cars fit in the same parking space, the only thing was, it was evident he had been there first. In my rush, I had seen what I thought was an empty parking space, pulled in behind his vehicle, and hurried inside.
Talk about red-faced.
“I can’t believe I did that,” I said, laughing, “but I certainly can’t deny it.” They laughed too.
“By the way,” the second man said, “how do you like the Fit. I’m thinking about buying one.”
“We love it,” I said, explaining it was our second one—and how my grandson walked away with only scratches from a serious accident in the first one.
We chatted a little longer then I moved my car to another parking spot—an empty one this time, and went back into the grocery store.
Meanwhile, he drove out of the lot.
When I got home, I told my husband, “Somewhere near here, there is a man walking into his house, holding his belly in laughter, telling his wife, “You won’t believe what this wild-haired crazy woman did….”
On hearing the tale later, a friend said, “Well, if I’d done something that stupid I sure wouldn’t tell anyone.
My response? “Hey, that story is too funny to keep, even when the jokes on me.”
