We bridled at that last bit, drew ourselves up to our full heights, insisted defensively on our competence, on the respect we were due because of all our hard work. We looked for others whose lives were similarly overstuffed; we found them. "This is just the way it is," we said to one another on the train, in the restaurant. "This is modern life. Maybe some people have time to measure things out by teaspoonfuls." Our voices dripped contempt for those people who had such time. We felt oddly defensive, though no one had accused us of anything. But not me. Not anyone who has a life. I have a life. I work hard. I play hard.
Two weeks ago, Cathy & I drove up Greenlawn Ave heading toward my house, and when we took the left turn onto Cedar, I accelerated out of the turn in hope of fishtailing a little bit on the snow before straightening out, which I enjoy and feel like a race car driver when I do it. This time, instead of straightening out, my Explorer continued to rotate and turn on the ice, eventually sliding perpendicular to path of the road. We were slowing down, but not enough to avoid hopping the curb and giving a tree a little tap. It didn't sound too bad, but when I got out and looked, I saw a bumper bent in, headlights on one side cracked open, and the impact bending a side fender, contorting the wheel well. My heart dropped a little bit, I grimaced, and asked myself and Cathy why I had decided to do that. Approaching the holidays and the wedding, we did not need any new complications. We had a full day planned, so I put it out of my mind and decided I would get a quote on the repairs ...