I lied to my husband. This is not something I do on a regular basis, in fact, I don't remember doing it at all except for the time I slipped and started smoking for three or four months, just a few a week, standing in the snow on my deck, shivering and trying not to leave telltale footprints.
When I was younger I could lie with the best, my silver tongue saved me from fierce confrontations with the ex-husband about my affair, those stories not going to happen here. But then I grew up, I got responsible, I got to like truth and the American way and I don't do that dirty deed no more.
But I did lie this time. I attempted to maneuver into a parking space, yes, children I was in a hurry and I didn't notice that the cretin in the Dodge macho truck was parked on the painted line and there was not enough room and I hooked my door on the fellow's fender and now I have no paint, no alignment and a bulging surface, like a sore tooth. What I said to The Husband, "some guy scraped my car in the parking lot," kind of, kind of true, the words are just rearranged differently.
I shouldn't be driving these big cars. I am a small person accustomed to maneuvering in small places and guiding this tank through the city streets feels alien and unnatural. I need to be in a Volkswagen, a moped, a pogo stick, just do me small, puh-leez. The fact that I have taken out three rear-view mirrors proves that I am not comfortable in this Chevy Impala sedan zone.
I present you, woman, tired.
You know what I wish? Besides world peace and well-fed African children? A chauffeur, an air-conditioned limo with a thin screen TV, car fridge packed with diet Coke and Kessler's, and hours of blissful, obligation-free time.