Archive for June, 2009

Admittedly, I could write a book about my epic falls. From staircases on dates to train stations in foreign countries, no place is a safe zone, and I never know what tricky situation is going to get the best of me.

Last night it was the Boulder sidewalk. Eager to celebrate the life and death of Michael Jackson with everything from the Jackson 5 to Thriller and beyond, I met a couple of my work friends at the bars. We had some good clean responsible fun and then walked up The Hill to someone’s house for more good clean responsible fun. A couple of Busch lights and some Wu Tang later, I was feeling nostalgic for someone else’s college experience (CMC’s crappy beer of choice was Natty Light, and I think I listened to more Ghost Face Killah than straight up Wu Tang) and ready to make the 2 mile walk back to my place so as to go to bed and have a good clean responsible morning.

Graciously, a coworker agreed to walk with me down The Hill as far as Pearl Street. This particular coworker is quick on the uptake. As with my family and best friends, he doesn’t miss much, and he makes sure to remind everyone of their mistakes… forever. So naturally, I’m glad he was there to witness my shining moment. Not more than 100 feet into our journey, I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and went sailing, face first, sliding-into-home style, on the sidewalk. I laid there for a moment, surprised by my abrupt meeting with the cold hard ground, and nervously giggled. Checking myself for injuries, of which I had a couple (mostly road rash on my arms, though I was certain I was going to have a bruise on my chin, too), I realized my short black dress had flown up, revealing my bright green thong to the world. Insult to injury, as usual. My coworker, bless his heart, made sure I was okay before bursting into a fit of laughter. I deserved it.

I’m sure when I come into work today, the entire kitchen staff will know about my inability to walk as well as my penchant for brightly colored lace underwear. My cover is blown. I’m not graceful. And when anyone asks me about where I was when Michael Jackson died, I’ll have to say I was quite literally caught with my pants down.

The saga that began in 1992 is over.  After 17 year of service, the Silver Bullet is dead, laid to rest by a crusty old lady in an orange Cadillac one fateful Saturday morning.  I have a few words I’d like to say over her mangled radiator before I let go.

It was a good run, old girl.  I remember (uh, vaguely) the day we brought you home.  We’d never had a new car in our family.  You smelled wonderful.  At least, you smelled wonderful for 2 weeks until both Adam and I had the privilege of barfing in your back seat during separate mountain drives.  You took it like a champ, though, what with your cleverly colored interior, and no one ever knew.

You ran like a high performance machine in your prime.  I remember proudly telling classmates that even with all those miles, we’d never had to do more than rotate the tires.  They were 11.  They didn’t care.  But I did, old girl, I did.

When I turned 16, I was surprised and happy to have the privilege of driving you.  I really tested your limits, and I’m sorry about that now.  I should never have tried to drive from that stop sign while keeping you in fourth gear.  I recognize now how that moment of fun probably took years off of your clutch.  Teaching all of my friends to drive stick shift in your hallowed seats also gave you a few gray hairs.  Wasn’t that fun, though, looking back?  I have all that jerking and screaming on video tape!  How incredibly fantastic!

You aged gracefully through all the hidden contraband in your trunk, through the little fender benders, through several years of a high school parking lot.  But 2009 was tough.  Rear endings, hit and runs, you couldn’t take it anymore.  The cancer had set in.  You gave it a good fight until the end, sometimes even fighting against those who loved you, but someone finally got the best of you.  And try as you did to dig your tires into the pavement when the old lady stopped at the green light in a 55 zone, you just couldn’t do it anymore.  You gasped your last breath on the back of a barely damaged bumper.

So long, Silver Bullet.  So long to your bumper stickers, your broken door handle, your cracked windshield, your missing tail light.  So long to the radio that only played one station.  Goodbye trunk full of PBR cans.  Goodbye broken vanity mirror.  Now I lay you down to rest, and pray that your soul and character live on forever.

And, dear Silver Bullet, though my next car will likely be a little more grown up, I’ll never forget you.  I’ll be seein’ you in all the old familiar places.  And we’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when, but we’ll meet again some sunny day.