Saturday, June 11, 2005
Sliding cars
People always wish that their lives could be more like a movie. The thing is, my life often does remind me of a movie--only, sadly, it's more often the crazy, chaotic middle part of the movie than the happy, love and kisses ending.
Yesterday, in particular, I found myself wondering if I'd suddenly stumbled into a scene from Sliding Doors. For those of you who have been living under a rock (or grew up in a bag, as the case may be) and have never seen the movie, it's basically an exploration of how a tiny, seemingly insignificant detail can alter the course of your day, and even your life.
My own Sliding Doors moment started around lunchtime yesterday, when I went out for my usual walk around the lake. It looked like rain, but I was hoping the weather would hold off until I'd finished my two laps, since that would be my only form of exercise for the day. As I was nearing the end of the first lap, the sky had gotten pretty cloudy and the wind was picking up, but still, I decided to go around a second time. When I was on the far side of the lake (at what could very well be the furthest possible point from any office buildings), the sky opened up. I ran to the nearest building, but it was too late--I was drenched.
I waited for the rain to let up a bit, then trudged back to my own building. Not wanting to spend the remainder of the day in wet clothes, I attempted to cobble together a makeshift outfit from whatever dry clothes I could find. I briefly considered wearing a trenchcoat one of my co-workers had left at her desk as a dress, but I figured that wouldn't go over so well with the uber-religious conservatives in my office. I had a pair of flip-flops in my desk that were left over from a photo shoot, and I managed to find an abandoned top in one of the lockers in our bathroom (which I normally wouldn't have worn, but I was desperate). However, I wasn't able to find any alternate pants, so I was forced to suffer in my wet jeans.
By around 3:30, the wet jeans/air conditioner combo was beginning to get to me, and I couldn't concentrate on anything other than how soon it would be before I could get myself into a warm bath. Since I nearly worked myself to death a few weeks ago, I thought my boss might have mercy on me and agree to let me leave a little bit early, which she did. After wrapping up a few loose ends, I was on my way out the door by 4:00.
I was surprised to see how much traffic was already on the highway, but considering that on Fridays, Birmingham rush hour starts at around 3:00, it wasn't too shocking. Right as I approached my exit, the car in front of me stopped short. I stop short to keep from hitting him. The guy behind me on a motorcycle stops...not so short, and ends up careening into the back of my car and flying off his bike.
I throw my car into park, turn my flashers on, and jump out to see if he's OK. His face is covered in blood, but he's up walking around and assures me that his injuries look a lot worse than they are. I ask if he needs me to call an ambulance, and he says he doesn't. I figure we should at least get a policeman on the scene, so I dial 911 (all the while wondering if I will ever again be able to make it through a year without having to dial 911) to report the accident. They say someone has already called, and the police are on their way.
As we're waiting, I want to do something to help the poor motorcycle guy, but the only thing I have in my car that can be of any service is my rain-soaked sweater, which I have to admit I wasn't too crazy about him bleeding all over. Besides, the woman behind us (who had stopped to offer her services as a witness) had already given him plenty of napkins and kleenex. So I'm basically useless. If this were Lost, I would be Shannon. OK, maybe not Shannon, but definitely not Kate. (Look at me making Lost references, as if I'd actually seen more than one episode of the show.)
Anyway. During the course of the waiting, motorcycle guy reveals that he's just taken the bike out of storage, and so the insurance on it has lapsed. Ouch. He asks if we can forego the filing of a police report. Remembering my last accident, in which the stoplight-running chippie tried to change her story after the fact, I tell him I'm a little wary of doing that. However, since he claims to take full responsibility for the accident, and since there is very little damage to me or my car, and since we have a witness, I agree to just exchange information.
Finally, a squad car pulls up, and out of it steps one of the hottest men I have ever seen in real life. Let me remind you that at this point, my hair is a giant frizzball from having been exposed to the rain, any makeup I had been wearing had been washed off by the earlier downpour, and I was dressed in a skanky hot-pink JC Penney's shirt that was a size too small, plus cheap-ass pink flip flops. Basically, I looked trashier than Britney Spears in all her Cheeto-eating, Red-Bull-drinking splendor. And this is when I get super-hot, young, single cop guy. Perfect.
Anyway, we tell him we don't want to file a report, and he calls a tow truck to come get the guy's motorcycle. We all exchange information (again, I was ill-prepared, and we had to rely on the witness lady for paper and a pen), and then the guy from the DPS who has been trying to manage the traffic everywhere tells witness lady and me that we really should get going while traffic is still slowed down. Witness lady leaves, and motorcycle guy and I say our good-byes and apologies. It is then that I wonder what the appropriate gesture is in this situation. Do you shake hands? That seemed too formal and business-like. He looked so pathetic, all bloody and everything, that I really just wanted to give him a hug, but I felt that would be too intimate. Finally, I settled on a little wave, but that felt wrong, too. I don't recall facing this conundrum during my last wreck, but that's probably because I was trying too hard to keep myself from hauling off and punching the stoplight-running chippie.
As I drove away, I couldn't help but wonder how things would have turned out if I'd decided to only walk one lap around the lake that afternoon. Or if, when walking out the door, I hadn't remembered that I needed to tell the mailroom guy something and gone back into the office. Would the accident still have happened? The point of Sliding Doors is that there are certain things that are meant to happen and therefore will happen, no matter what paths lead you there. So I guess it's possible that this motorcycle guy and I, for whatever reason, were meant to collide yesterday. But we'll never know for sure. My life, after all, isn't really a movie.
People always wish that their lives could be more like a movie. The thing is, my life often does remind me of a movie--only, sadly, it's more often the crazy, chaotic middle part of the movie than the happy, love and kisses ending.
Yesterday, in particular, I found myself wondering if I'd suddenly stumbled into a scene from Sliding Doors. For those of you who have been living under a rock (or grew up in a bag, as the case may be) and have never seen the movie, it's basically an exploration of how a tiny, seemingly insignificant detail can alter the course of your day, and even your life.
My own Sliding Doors moment started around lunchtime yesterday, when I went out for my usual walk around the lake. It looked like rain, but I was hoping the weather would hold off until I'd finished my two laps, since that would be my only form of exercise for the day. As I was nearing the end of the first lap, the sky had gotten pretty cloudy and the wind was picking up, but still, I decided to go around a second time. When I was on the far side of the lake (at what could very well be the furthest possible point from any office buildings), the sky opened up. I ran to the nearest building, but it was too late--I was drenched.
I waited for the rain to let up a bit, then trudged back to my own building. Not wanting to spend the remainder of the day in wet clothes, I attempted to cobble together a makeshift outfit from whatever dry clothes I could find. I briefly considered wearing a trenchcoat one of my co-workers had left at her desk as a dress, but I figured that wouldn't go over so well with the uber-religious conservatives in my office. I had a pair of flip-flops in my desk that were left over from a photo shoot, and I managed to find an abandoned top in one of the lockers in our bathroom (which I normally wouldn't have worn, but I was desperate). However, I wasn't able to find any alternate pants, so I was forced to suffer in my wet jeans.
By around 3:30, the wet jeans/air conditioner combo was beginning to get to me, and I couldn't concentrate on anything other than how soon it would be before I could get myself into a warm bath. Since I nearly worked myself to death a few weeks ago, I thought my boss might have mercy on me and agree to let me leave a little bit early, which she did. After wrapping up a few loose ends, I was on my way out the door by 4:00.
I was surprised to see how much traffic was already on the highway, but considering that on Fridays, Birmingham rush hour starts at around 3:00, it wasn't too shocking. Right as I approached my exit, the car in front of me stopped short. I stop short to keep from hitting him. The guy behind me on a motorcycle stops...not so short, and ends up careening into the back of my car and flying off his bike.
I throw my car into park, turn my flashers on, and jump out to see if he's OK. His face is covered in blood, but he's up walking around and assures me that his injuries look a lot worse than they are. I ask if he needs me to call an ambulance, and he says he doesn't. I figure we should at least get a policeman on the scene, so I dial 911 (all the while wondering if I will ever again be able to make it through a year without having to dial 911) to report the accident. They say someone has already called, and the police are on their way.
As we're waiting, I want to do something to help the poor motorcycle guy, but the only thing I have in my car that can be of any service is my rain-soaked sweater, which I have to admit I wasn't too crazy about him bleeding all over. Besides, the woman behind us (who had stopped to offer her services as a witness) had already given him plenty of napkins and kleenex. So I'm basically useless. If this were Lost, I would be Shannon. OK, maybe not Shannon, but definitely not Kate. (Look at me making Lost references, as if I'd actually seen more than one episode of the show.)
Anyway. During the course of the waiting, motorcycle guy reveals that he's just taken the bike out of storage, and so the insurance on it has lapsed. Ouch. He asks if we can forego the filing of a police report. Remembering my last accident, in which the stoplight-running chippie tried to change her story after the fact, I tell him I'm a little wary of doing that. However, since he claims to take full responsibility for the accident, and since there is very little damage to me or my car, and since we have a witness, I agree to just exchange information.
Finally, a squad car pulls up, and out of it steps one of the hottest men I have ever seen in real life. Let me remind you that at this point, my hair is a giant frizzball from having been exposed to the rain, any makeup I had been wearing had been washed off by the earlier downpour, and I was dressed in a skanky hot-pink JC Penney's shirt that was a size too small, plus cheap-ass pink flip flops. Basically, I looked trashier than Britney Spears in all her Cheeto-eating, Red-Bull-drinking splendor. And this is when I get super-hot, young, single cop guy. Perfect.
Anyway, we tell him we don't want to file a report, and he calls a tow truck to come get the guy's motorcycle. We all exchange information (again, I was ill-prepared, and we had to rely on the witness lady for paper and a pen), and then the guy from the DPS who has been trying to manage the traffic everywhere tells witness lady and me that we really should get going while traffic is still slowed down. Witness lady leaves, and motorcycle guy and I say our good-byes and apologies. It is then that I wonder what the appropriate gesture is in this situation. Do you shake hands? That seemed too formal and business-like. He looked so pathetic, all bloody and everything, that I really just wanted to give him a hug, but I felt that would be too intimate. Finally, I settled on a little wave, but that felt wrong, too. I don't recall facing this conundrum during my last wreck, but that's probably because I was trying too hard to keep myself from hauling off and punching the stoplight-running chippie.
As I drove away, I couldn't help but wonder how things would have turned out if I'd decided to only walk one lap around the lake that afternoon. Or if, when walking out the door, I hadn't remembered that I needed to tell the mailroom guy something and gone back into the office. Would the accident still have happened? The point of Sliding Doors is that there are certain things that are meant to happen and therefore will happen, no matter what paths lead you there. So I guess it's possible that this motorcycle guy and I, for whatever reason, were meant to collide yesterday. But we'll never know for sure. My life, after all, isn't really a movie.
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