My friend, Sarah and I are prone to deep, philosophical conversations in between commercials or when we should be paying attention during professional development opportunities. Usually our topics center around my abysmal taste in jewelry, her inability to locate the windshield washer solvent compartment in her car, the plausibility of hosting a jousting tournament during our 6th grade Renaissance Faire, and re-routing household funds into a secret Swiss bank account so our husbands will remain blissfully unaware of the thousands of dollars being funneled into meaningful classroom projects. I personally drop twenty dollars alone on googly eyes annually.
Several years ago, while somewhat listening to a professional extolling the benefits of positivity in the academic setting, Sarah and I realized that that particular philosophy was not compatible to our classroom environments so we began discussing the more-relevant topic of insect-related car mishaps. Having been the victim of countless collisions as bugs came barreling through my open-car-window, pelting my body with stinging barbs or leaving me screaming me with uncertainty as to their creepy-crawling 4-11, I speculated that many questionable car crashes could be attributed to bugs. To further strengthen this hypothesis, I shared that the CSI analysis would undoubtedly overlook this tiny factor as, more than likely, the perpetrator would simply scamper undetected from the scene. Sarah, naturally, was in awe when confronted with such rational logic. Little did I know that this conversation, combined with my shared personal anecdote, would forever alter Sarah's perceptions of insect-car compatibility.
Many years ago, I was driving sedately down the road with my children when, without warning, a bee flew in my window at approximately 55 miles per hour, violently striking my chest before falling into my shirt with angry buzzing noises. I did what an normal person would do: I yanked our truck to the side of the road, launched myself bodily from the vehicle, ripped off my shirt and danced around manically in the middle of Route 78. My daughters, naturally, cherish this memory. Yesterday, Sarah was struck with a similar situation. She unintentionally and unwillingly carpooled her way from Chili to Wyoming County with an impossible-to-locate but equally impossible-to-ignore bug. She dangerously drove distracted for an hour before reaching me. She threw her car in park and ran away, vowing to never re-enter the vehicle until the vermin had been located and removed. Hours later, we were on our way.
That same day, my daughters and I again embarked on a journey down the infamous Route 78. The wind in our hair, semi-fresh country air filling the truck with the familiar smells of summer, I felt a sharp stinging on my shoulder-blade. I yelped and slapped at the area, prepared to pull the van over. "It wasn't a bug, Mom," Sydney said comfortingly. "What was it," I asked fearfully as a PBS survivor (post-bug syndrome). "You had a string of elastic sticking out of your shirt," she explained. "So you pulled it?" I snapped, my shoulder still smarting. Resuming our travels, I mused that I might have to revise my original hypothesis, broadening the scope to include wardrobe mishaps. I can't wait for my next professional development conference to share this latest update with Sarah. Until then, I will rejoice in the life-saving capabilities afforded by modern technology. What's that saying? When God closes a window, he turns on the air conditioning to save you from a bug-induced car collision.
You need to be careful about around those deadly strings of elastic!
ReplyDeleteMock if you must, Cathy, but it was quite painful.
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