We ride together in one car to pick up our other car from the shop. After paying for the work we had done, he gives me the car keys and asks, "Okay?" "Yes," I say. "See you at home after I visit my dad." He drives off to do his errands.
It has snowed. That heavy, slushy, very wet type of snow, and I have to clean off the car before I can go anywhere. I unlock it and start searching. Where's the ice scraper brushy thingy? Not in the front, not in the back. Must still be in the trunk where it has idly rested since last spring. I open the trunk. I am cold. A slip into mere okay-ishness is already threatening.
There it is. The ice scraper brushy thingy is way in the back of the trunk, with the folded lawn chairs, undoubtedly miffed at being taken so much for granted. It's so far back that I cannot reach it without leaning in and getting the front legs of my pants wet. Oh, that's cold! I still can't reach it. Come here, you . . . you . . . thingy, you. I need something to pull it toward me. Well, here's some kind of stick thing.
Reaching, reaching. Trying, trying. This is very trying. I finally manage to move one end of the scraper enough toward me to be able to grab it. Now the front legs of my jeans are soaked through. And I wonder which coat has my leather gloves in its pockets since it is not the coat I am wearing. Did I say I am cold? I am now in full-blown okay-ishness, considering being not okay.
I clean off the car as quickly as I can, but all the windows are covered with snow again almost as soon as I scrape off the slush. Finally, I get in the car, turn on all the defrosters, and think about how to get out of this lot. It is a tight squeeze. Every slot has a car in it and I have very little room to back up. It's a nightmare, but I can do it. Pull back, jockey, pull forward, jockey. If only I could see what I am doing.
A guy comes running out of the shop, and I lower my window when I see he wants to say something to me. It hits me that he and others in the shop may have been watching this lame attempt. "You can just pull forward here into the street," he says. "There isn't really much of a curb." He's smiling, but I imagine I can hear him add, "you dumb woman driver." "Oh, I didn't see that," I say. My response is also lame, but I can't say "How was I supposed to see that?" like I want to. He is just trying to help, right? So much so that he steps into the street, holds off traffic, and directs me out. I imagine several other drivers mumbling, "dumb woman driver."
Ten minutes later I am with my dad. Except for the wet pant legs, I am swinging back to an okay state. I am over it. I have carried in my offerings, including the chocolate covered cordial cherries that were on sale at Meijer. The box only has ten pieces in it, so my gamble is a small one. Still, I hope for success to make up for the last half hour. "Dad, was it Mom and you who liked these so much, or was it just Mom?" "It was just your mom," he says.
Let's see. Cold and snow. Wet pant legs. Embarrassing car lot experience. A bout of okay-ishness. Unclaimed chocolate-covered cordial cherries.
Well, what would you do?