I took a spin on I-75 today. Three 360 degree rotations to be exact, when I hit a patch of ice. Turns out, bridges DO freeze before roadways. (Next time I'll know.)
I was on my way to my mom's annual church bake/rummage sale, and had just passed the billboard for Liquor WORLD (presumably for those times when a Barn just isn't enough) when I took my impromptu detour.
Miraculously (and I don't use the term lightly), I didn't hit anything or anyone. The whole thing probably only took a few seconds and I even ended up headed back in the direction I was going anyway. It was still plenty time for my death, if not my life, to flash before my eyes.
I had time to think, "I don't want to die listening to Coldplay (smalltown radio selections are limited)."
I had time to worry about the state troopers finding the bottle of Xanax/ambien in my ripped, blood-stained pockets (valid Rx and labels mind you - I'm not a country music star). I never travel without appropriate pharmaceutical rations - I think of it like the cyanide capsules delta teams tuck in the back of their jaw to bite down on in case they're captured. Cause ya' never know. And cause it's better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it.
I had time to be relieved my license, registration, and insurance were all properly up to date so if I killed anybody, somebody would be compensated.
I had time to regret not upgrading my Triple A to deluxe so my potentially mangled vehicle could be towed home.
I had time to wonder if Bluegrass Family Health covers a med-vac helicopter, because, please God, don't let me survive a crash only to be killed by the butchers who pass themselves off as medical personnel in my hometown (where you can go in for a hangnail and come out in a body bag).
Also, I hated to die with a full TiVo, and withOUT finishing this week's 30 Rock. (How did Liz's reunion turn out?)
You know. The usual.
After all that, the bake sale was relatively anticlimactic.
I did almost get into a tussle with a 7-year-old who got to a cool pink tote before I did. She pointed out I could still buy the red one just like it, to which I responded, "I'll fight you for it" prompting her answer of (and I'm not making this up) "Bring. It."
It was around this time when I overheard her grandmother wrap up a conversation across the room with the phrase, "so luckily I was licensed for conceal/carry."
And then I decided to content myself with a few pounds of bourbon balls for the day's haul.
Later I posted most everything on Facebook as status updated, eliciting a thoughtful comment from one guy who wrote, "I'm glad you're not dead, 'cause I like your writing."
Awww... Well, that's one anyway.
Out of 657.
And now I think it's time for a bourbon ball.