Sunday, November 30, 2008
I’ve been told Hoosiers own the largest inventory of black Chevy Trail Blazers per capita in the country. I can’t confirm that, and after my experience last Friday, I don’t want to. It could turn out to be untrue, and I need the excuse.
This embarrassing admission takes place at our new Noodles & Company, which I wanted to check out before taking my friend’s teen-age daughter to the mall. Ron went along to be a supportive husband, a role he’s eager to fill whenever the topic is food. And that’s how the three of us wound up taking his SUV rather than my red Miata in the first place.
As we were leaving, a blast of cold air hit me — me, with my coat unzipped and my ear muffs in my pocket along with my gloves. So my first instinct was to run for the car and stop the shaking. Thank goodness it was in the first space. I threw open the passenger door and it struck me that Ron is really a pig. The seat was covered in crumbs, with a to-go cup lid lying there.
Yah, I should have caught the fact that I had just graced that seat 30 minutes before and I didn’t have a drink. Nor is my butt crumby. But my sole goal at that instant was to shut that door and start warming up.
Just as I got comfy, a deep male voice cut through my fog: “Hey, lady, this isn't your car.”
Of course, my husband was standing in the parking lot laughing himself sick. The teen-ager was torn between being embarrassed that adults were creating attention and laughing herself sick. Not only did I have to get out of the Trail Blazer and walk down three spaces to where our identical vehicle was, passing the owner (also laughing) as we went, I had to sit in yet another cold seat.
I didn’t check to see if I had a cup lid stuck to my rear, too.