I saw a woman get hit by a car on Sunday. I know. My various friends will have different reactions to that. Some will laugh, though I can’t lie I just have never found “America’s Funniest Home Video” funny, despite the subliminal messaging in the title. Some friends will be concerned, knowing how serious it could have been. She lived and seemed okay, to answer the question all of those without a black abyss for a soul were wondering. Since it seems I started with the big bang ending (inappropriate pun) let’s start at the beginning. My roommate and I were waiting at the bus stop, heading off to church. And despite my cardinal rule of not discussing dreams (It just bothers me. The stories go on too long and I never know the appropriate reaction because the events didn’t actually happen..) but since I had a nightmare, I clearly was willing to break this code as I described in detail why I woke up feeling so unsettled. As we were lamenting, we turned suddenly when we heard the sound of a body hitting a car. It was hard to tell if she was walking when it wasn’t her turn or if he had gone through a yellow light, but either way, girlfriend got hit by a car. I instinctively screamed out “OH MY GOD,” as I swear the whole intersection froze. It was broken when a cop car came whirling up and a woman waiting at the bus stop, almost as if quoting the Dane Cook skit was talking to us, “Did you see that?! I flagged down the cop car!” …. “Look at this guy with shoes!” Either way the girl who got hit has been giving me perspective for the week.
Work has been interesting (read: MIZ) lately. But the minute I start to get down it’s like the Universe is saying, “Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you” (BOSSY). I know people overcoming cancer, dealing with a sick child, or even just having a shittier day than me. There’s an old saying that if everyone threw their problems into a pile, you’d be amazed how quick you’d move to retrieve yours right back. I know that’s the beauty of time, or an attempted hit and run by a Chicago cabbie, you gain perspective. For example, my 8th grade embarrassment now seems not nearly as catastrophic…even though I will admit I sometimes still blush telling the story.
I was a cheerleader, deal with it. I’ve danced since I was 3, grew up sitting through my brother’s football practices and I like attention (honesty hour), so it was a logical end career. It was eighth grade and it was pep rally day. I don’t care who you are, when you are going out in front of your entire school, your palms, pits and knees are probably going to be sweating. We were sitting by class, 6th grade on the right, 7th grade in the middle and 8th grade to the left. The cheerleaders spirited their way out onto the floor, partnered up and stood in front of each class. I took pity on the minions, the newbs of the school and held my ground in front of the 6th graders. They looked so innocent…if I would of only known… Anyways, the Vice Principal got on the microphone and asked us to see what grade had the most school spirit! Make some noise, raise the roof and chant “West Is Best!” 6th grade was first, so I turned to face the crowd, smile on, hair bouncy. My counterpart started chanting “West is Best!” But I, in a sober black out, just kept clapping and repeating “West! West! West!” like a child who just discovered the word “HI.” I noticed confused looks but I couldn’t stop, I was too far gone, I cringe thinking I may have even sped up. Soon the whole grade was chanting WEST. WEST. WEST. (I still hear it in my dreams some days.) We finished up screaming our school pride and I swear to god the Vice Principal paused and then went “Okay…..7th grade?” Which the grade then started chanting “West Is Best,” ya no, as one cohesive sentence. That’s when it hit me, did I think the 7th grade was going to chant “IS. IS. IS. IS?!” I burned in shame and pretended that I wasn’t mortified when my then boyfriend mocked me for weeks straight after that one or even years later when my best friend chants “WEST” when I’m feeling most fragile.
I’ve had worse public humiliation. I got hit in the face with a softball at practice in high school. I then went off to college and got hit in the face with a football while waiting in line outside of a bar… to which alter-ego-ghetto-me (she appears at random, you can never predict it) tried to hunt down who did it to no avail. (It was drunk colonel mustard, in the 21 and over line, with a frat pack!) A few months later into my freshman year, I got hit in the eye with a baseball while playing catch in our quad on the first nice day of spring (i.e, the whole dorm was out there). I know. The Universe was kindly trying to tell me I’m not athletic. When recounting these tales to my friends at home over break, I chose to use the following sentence; “I always get hit in the face with balls.” (Cue immature snickers) And just to really send the message home, in case the Universe was unsure if I was listening– I GOT HIT IN THE FACE WITH A FOOTBALL WHILE TELLING THAT STORY. MID SENTENCE. I SHIT U NOT.
But I guess that’s better than a car. #PerspectiveWin