You know that moment? That single, solitary second when you realize you have just done something irreversibly stupid?
Yeah, me too.
It started like this:
I pulled the "man-truck" into Mike and Sara's garage. (I borrowed it while they were both out of town last week and my car was in the shop.) ((Yes, I had permission.)) I was careful to pull it way over the right so there would be plenty of room for Sara to park when she came home on Sunday. I was careful to pull it far enough forward to adequately close the garage door without slamming it on the tailgate. And I was careful to get my house keys out of my purse so I could go THROUGH the house instead of having to run out of the garage wearing wedges and carrying several bags.
I was wildly successful at all these endeavors. I exited the man-truck, meticulously parked in exactly the right spot, with all my bags, and my keys in hand. I even remembered that Mike's truck does not have electric locks, so, being the ever-conscientious one,I was mindful to flip the lock when I got out of the truck. With my keys in hand. MY keys in hand. The ones out of my purse. That's when I uttered the following words to myself:
"Oh, CRAP, NO! NO! NO! Please, please, please. Oh man, oh man, oh man . . . I DIDN'T REALLY just do THAT, DID I?!?!?"
Yes, yes I did.
Mike's keys were still in the ignition.
And the man-truck was still running.
Yes, yes it was.
The worst part of this story is that I was not alone. Christina had followed me over to give me a ride back to get my car. Now it is not bad enough that I have done something ridiculously stupid . . . I have done something ridiculously stupid in front of a witness. So as she pulled into the driveway I told her what I had done, then I went into the house to ransack it for spare keys. Bound to be some. Kitchen drawer? Nope. Foyer table? Nope. Bedside table? Nope. Office Desk? Nope. Cubbyhole shelves in the hallway? Nope. Weird little place in the bathroom where they keep the lawnmower key? (I don't ask, I just happen to know.) But nope.
This is where I decided blogging has made me a better person, because instead of getting mad or frustrated or grumpy, I just rolled my eyes and thought how this is going to make a great blog story.
Now I debated the unthinkable. Do I call Sara and ask where spare keys might be? That means I have to confess to my boneheadedness. I don't want to. I REALLY don't want to. But the truck is burning gas and church is starting in 15 minutes and I am teaching a class. Well, I am SUPPOSED to be teaching a class. So I call her. Sara answered with a semi-panicky sound to her voice because I NEVER call. Ever. Oh sure, I may text her 38 times an hour, but I don't call. So, in a way, that was good, because she expected something was really wrong, and was relieved and even laughed when I told her what I had done. Then she laughed more when she informed me that the only spare key was currently with her in Florida.
Now what? Call a locksmith, I suppose. But first I called my husband 1) because he is a former police officer and will know which locksmith to recommend and 2) because he is used to my scatterbrained blunders and might even feel sorry for me. He does, and he called upon his buddies at the Sheriff's Dept. to help me out.
Then he told me he suspected I may have done this on purpose so I would have a great blog story.
About 45 minutes later Officer Bob showed up (I'm sure that wasn't really his name, but all generic characters in my stories get the name Bob, especially when I am too preoccupied with my own predicament to pay attention) and tried to "jimmy" open the door. Oooooooh. Maybe I should have named him Officer Jimmy instead. Though we ARE in Kentucky . . . so maybe I should just use both names. Doesn't matter, 'cause despite his kindness, diligence and professionalism, at this point he was unsuccessful at rescuing me.
Next, Officer Jimmy Bob got out a bloodpressure cuff, wedged it in the door and pumped it up to open the door ever-so-slightly. Then he slid in what I refer to as "a flamingo wire" (it was like an extra-long pink coat-hanger with a handle) and proceeded to try to flip the lock open. Christina stood on the opposite side of the truck to shine a flashlight in so he could see what he was doing. I had the difficult job of self-appointed "Lock Coach'. "Come on. You can do it. There you go. Almost got it. OOOOHHH, SO CLOSE!" I'm sure I was quite helpful and not at all annoying. After a good 15 minutes and some nasty paint scratches to the white paint, Officer Jimmy Bob was finally successful at opening the man-truck. Then I wondered, "How much do you tip a deputy who bails you out of a sticky situation?"
Now that this whole ordeal was drawing to close I became aware of the gathering crowd in the neighborhood, you know, because aside from Paris Hilton's "My BFF" on MTV, there's just not a lot of excitement around here. Oh, they all tried to be nonchalant about it, standing in their own driveways pretending to walk dogs and water plants and get mail . . . but I could see the quizzical looks on their faces. They were watching as Officer Jimmy Bob arrived, and they were watching as Officer Jimmy Bob left, and they were wondering, "WHAT IN THE WORLD kind of illegal stuff is goin' on over there at the minister's house?!?!"
I thought about drawing a white chalk outline of a dog on the driveway, but decided against it. Mostly because I didn't have any chalk. Guess those nosy neighbors will just have to read my blog to find out.