Take Me Home

I'm still mad.

While we were at the car dealership today, before I went to the mall, realized that payphones don't exist, had a panic attack and was swarmed and eaten alive by a cloud of mosquitoes while F stayed in the car with the windows rolled up, slapping furiously at the interior of the car unawares that I was locked out of the house and losing blood fast, we were at the car dealership (again sigh). This time it was Honda in Alexandria. F drove a Civic and, as we proceeded to exit said car (which smelled like dirty feet), I grabbed the door frame between the window and the weather stripping. Meanwhile, F rolled the window up and turned the car off.

I screamed like a banshee and writhed, attached to that god-awful armpit car for 3 full minutes 5 seconds tops (F informs me) before F could restart the car and roll the window back down. How does someone DO THAT?? Roll a window up and turn off a car and pull the keys out of the ignition SO quickly. Especially when "someone" does everything else so... carefully slowly the rest of the time?

When I was finally released from my hellish armpit-car of torture chamber; I was overcome. OVER. COME. with a blind, seething rage. (That is my gut reaction when someone hurts me - physically or otherwise; I can't help it; I know, I need therapy). I'm sure I made quite a spectacle for all Honda-perusers to enjoy as I walked/ran away from the dealership, with F in tow, and yelled "Get the F*&^ away from me" twice. Lovely.

Then I ran to the Subaru lot (which was somehow mcuh more homey and comforting than Honda) and knelt behind an Outback to cry my eyes out. Thoughts like: What the Hell am I doing at a car dealership in Virginia?; What the Hell have I done with my Life?; WHY is it SO f^&%ing humid?; and I WANT MY MOTHER! overwhelmed me. I really let loose - spit flying, snorting, wailing (I think it's been building for a few weeks now). The parts guy even drove by and peered under the car to see if I was either

A. an otherwise healthy person having a wholly inappropriate reaction to a minor injury or
B. An otherwordly, satanic apparition come to the Subaru dealership for his soul.

Apparently, he decided on the latter and sped off, post-haste, in his parts-mobile.

I finally calmed down and returned to the Honda lot (composed, controlled, poised). Just like I had NEVER been there 15 minutes before having a meltdown like a 3 year old.

But what I really wanted to SAY is, F never let me tell him what it was like to be in that moment. I was confused. I knew that there was horrific pain, I knew that I was trapped, I could see that F was in control. I didn't understand for *whatever* (3 seconds?) and it broke my heart for that instant. I can't explain it any better than that, and when I tried, F told me to get over it, that he has had his finger slammed in the door, too and that it isn't that bad. Ahem.

That's SO not it. Not at all. It was the duration; it was the fact that he was in control; it was the fact that I was helpless; it was the fact that I have asked him SO. many. times. NOT to roll the car windows up all the way - that for that instant, it felt like he was torturing me to spite me. Yes, because we have had this exchange SO many times - "F, please leave the windows cracked" and he persists in hermetically sealing the car before we depart every time, everywhere, in ANY weather. Even MY car, when I'm driving!!

And I guess all of those thoughts just converged at once to produce an ugly grief/anguish/rage/pain display for the viewing horror/pleasure of the Honda populace. I feel guilty for acting like a little kid. I kept thinking the ENTIRE time: "If this was Kendall, and Kyle rolled her finger into a car window, for a long time, and it really hurt; she would endure it with a modicum of grace and composure, inform Kyle that she had been injured, but, no she was fine; excuse herself to the restroom; dab her eyes; refresh her mascara; administer first-aide to her right index and middle fingers; and return to the car lot. Basically, act like a lady - which I always fail at. Badly. Ugh. So, I felt even worse because I will never grow up to be like my little sister.

I will always snort when I laugh and guffaw instead of laugh.

Anyway.

So, it's about quarter to one now and F is fast asleep. I, as usual, am wide awake. I rolled over to F, assumed a seductive pose and whispered his name. When he awoke I whispered,

Me: It's hot and throbbing

F: it is?

Me: MMMmmmmm, YES!

F: What is?

Me: MY FINGER!!! Snort, guffaw, snort.