Big Ouchy!!
Okay. The past couple of days have been frustrating and, in many ways, painful. Earlier in the week I experienced another in a series of wonderfully entertaining setbacks with my jalopy. My car, though it runs very well, has continually been a source of bullshitty happenings ranging from loss of brakes, to blowing a tire at 65 mph on the freeway, all within the past six months. The latest in this saga, and one that I was admittedly made aware of by my brother-in-law who gave me the car, is that the driver's side door no longer wants to close. I have had issues with it before, it being a rather heavy two-door design. The weight of the door and the age of the car work in conjunction to ensure that it occasionally becomes unhinged as it were and does not seat itself into the latch thingy (my knowledge of cars leaves something to be desired--vertical pedal makes it go; horizontal makes it stop).
So, anyway, on one of this week's cold and snowy mornings, I pried the thing open from its icy encasing, and, upon arriving at my destination--the satellite campus in Alliance--found that I could not close the door. I pushed, slammed, pulled, manually manipulated the latch thingy, all to no avail. So, finally getting it to somehow shut effectively, I went about my day, opening and closing as needed, all the while maintaining luck and getting the car to be properly secured.
Arriving home that evening, however, the smiling Thunderbird gods decided to end their spree of good fortune for me. I simply could not get the thing to seat. Then, as I pushed with all of my strength on the thing to slam it home, the door stopped more suddenly than I expected and my thumb gave way, in the wrong direction, and I felt pain shoot through my arm that I have not felt in quite some time. I was terrified. I waited that one horrible fraction of a minute where I thought perhaps I had broken the opposable digit, and began brainstorming what I would do with a cast over my hand for next several weeks. I did eventually move my thumb and sauntered to my front door, greeting my wife with a pitiful look upon opening the door like Eddie Felson in The Hustler: "I got beat up...and...they broke my thumbs. Oh Sarah, they broke my thumbs."
The kicker is what happened the following morning. I stupidly, in a flash of masculine defiance, attempted to get back in the car and close the door. Of course fifteen minutes later, after several slamming attempts, my wife and I were both in the cold driveway attempting to shut the stupid gosh darned door. With my wife pushing, and I pulling from the driver's seat, the door stopped short again, and... I JAMMED THE SAME THUMB!!!!!!!!!
I don't mind saying that I was in tears. I screamed, and lay on the passenger seat, literally crying. At that point, the rage that I usually reserve for frustrating moving attempts--the kind of rage in which adrenaline takes over and coerces me into damaging myself--kicked in, and I got out and pushed as hard as I could on the door--cussing and belittling it to the best of my ability until my wife pleaded with me to stop. She's seen this rage before.
Needless to say, my wonderful wife, out of the goodness of her heart, loaned me the minivan "Mom Mobile" until we are able to get a real man to fix the door.
I love her. I love her very much.