I'm not that kind of girl.
I wear many hats in my life. I'm a wife, mother, aunt, sister, teacher, actress, costumer, and friend.
In none of those roles, would I ever, ever, ever EVER be described as "sporty."
Nonetheless, due to friends from out of the country needing a large car for their holiday visit, Colin the sexy, black Toyota Sequoia went to live with them for a few months and I am driving my mother-in-law's extra car, a red Jeep Wrangler.
Jeeps are sporty. And this one is really cute. It's sort of fun to drive. It's speedy, has a small turning radius, and makes me feel spunky. That's right. I said spunky. If I were sixteen, I would have already flipped it four times by now.
But, as I shouldn't have to point out, I'm nowhere near sixteen, and I am not sporty.
I'll illustrate the point.
Last week, after having done a rather strenuous workout, I hopped in the Jeep to go to the grocery store.
You hop in a Jeep. Did you know? You can't just get in. One must hop. This is not a car that's built for ease of access. Old people can't own Jeeps. They'd stand there and turn to dust trying to figure out how to get in the darn thing without breaking something. (That previous sentence is called foreshadowing, FYI.)
Anyhow, I did my grocery thing. (And let me take a sidetrip and tell you that Jeep 'trunk' space is not suited to buying the amount of groceries that I do for my husband & two preteen boys. It's like trying to cram two tons of crap into a one ton bag.) When I got finished in the store and the cute little bag boy helped me shove everything into the Jeep, I gave him a wave, a cheery "Thanks!" and hopped into the Jeep.
Except I didn't make it.
In a tragic set of circumstances involving sore quadriceps, distraction by the sun and a missed oh, s#*t handle, I didn't so much hop in the Jeep as I fell on my backside in the parking lot of the United Supermarket on Amarillo Boulevard and Gem Lake Road.
As I sat there on the asphalt, trying to decide if everything was still where it should be, if not in the condition in which it was a few moments before, the cute little bag boy bent over, blocking the sun, and asked, "Are you alright, ma'am?"
I did not answer what was going through my head, which was something along the lines of, "Hell, no, I'm not alright! Do I look alright? I'm a grown woman sitting on her butt in a parking lot when I MISSED THE JEEP HOP. I SUCK."
What actually came out of my mouth was, "Yes, I'm fine, thank you." And then I mumbled something about being humiliated.
To which the seventeen year-old bag boy said, "Don't be embarrassed. It happens more often than you think."
Which brings me to THIS question: What happens more often than I think? Morons being at the grocery store? Forty year old women trying to get in a Jeep and missing? Or a non-sporty girl driving something clearly out of her grasp?
Maybe I should watch how my mother-in-law does it, when I get it back to her. She totally pulls it off.
Alas, I do not. It's a shame, too. Because it's a really cute little red Jeep. But one cannot be a klutz and drive a sporty car. It just doesn't work. Maybe my next car should be something Carrie-proof.
If there even is such a thing. ;)
In none of those roles, would I ever, ever, ever EVER be described as "sporty."
Nonetheless, due to friends from out of the country needing a large car for their holiday visit, Colin the sexy, black Toyota Sequoia went to live with them for a few months and I am driving my mother-in-law's extra car, a red Jeep Wrangler.
Jeeps are sporty. And this one is really cute. It's sort of fun to drive. It's speedy, has a small turning radius, and makes me feel spunky. That's right. I said spunky. If I were sixteen, I would have already flipped it four times by now.
But, as I shouldn't have to point out, I'm nowhere near sixteen, and I am not sporty.
I'll illustrate the point.
Last week, after having done a rather strenuous workout, I hopped in the Jeep to go to the grocery store.
You hop in a Jeep. Did you know? You can't just get in. One must hop. This is not a car that's built for ease of access. Old people can't own Jeeps. They'd stand there and turn to dust trying to figure out how to get in the darn thing without breaking something. (That previous sentence is called foreshadowing, FYI.)
Anyhow, I did my grocery thing. (And let me take a sidetrip and tell you that Jeep 'trunk' space is not suited to buying the amount of groceries that I do for my husband & two preteen boys. It's like trying to cram two tons of crap into a one ton bag.) When I got finished in the store and the cute little bag boy helped me shove everything into the Jeep, I gave him a wave, a cheery "Thanks!" and hopped into the Jeep.
Except I didn't make it.
In a tragic set of circumstances involving sore quadriceps, distraction by the sun and a missed oh, s#*t handle, I didn't so much hop in the Jeep as I fell on my backside in the parking lot of the United Supermarket on Amarillo Boulevard and Gem Lake Road.
As I sat there on the asphalt, trying to decide if everything was still where it should be, if not in the condition in which it was a few moments before, the cute little bag boy bent over, blocking the sun, and asked, "Are you alright, ma'am?"
I did not answer what was going through my head, which was something along the lines of, "Hell, no, I'm not alright! Do I look alright? I'm a grown woman sitting on her butt in a parking lot when I MISSED THE JEEP HOP. I SUCK."
What actually came out of my mouth was, "Yes, I'm fine, thank you." And then I mumbled something about being humiliated.
To which the seventeen year-old bag boy said, "Don't be embarrassed. It happens more often than you think."
Which brings me to THIS question: What happens more often than I think? Morons being at the grocery store? Forty year old women trying to get in a Jeep and missing? Or a non-sporty girl driving something clearly out of her grasp?
Maybe I should watch how my mother-in-law does it, when I get it back to her. She totally pulls it off.
Alas, I do not. It's a shame, too. Because it's a really cute little red Jeep. But one cannot be a klutz and drive a sporty car. It just doesn't work. Maybe my next car should be something Carrie-proof.
If there even is such a thing. ;)