Dear Readers,
Hahahaha about hors-d'œuvre, I tried it and failed.
No one throughout history, except for a few French chefs, have spelled it correctly.
An Accident That Never Ends
——
Okay, so here’s what happened.
I was walking, because of course I was walking—
I walk everywhere, it makes me feel
like a competent person who has their life together,
which, let’s be honest, I absolutely do not.
But I’m walking, and I’m thinking
about something very important,
like whether I should get my hair cut
because it’s been looking a little too “women’s studies professor” lately,
or maybe whether I should finally replace the lightbulb in the kitchen
that’s been out for two weeks because I refuse
to get on a stepladder,
not because I’m afraid of heights but because I don’t
trust myself not to fall
and end up in one of those freak accident obituaries
where people think, “Really? A stepladder? That’s how she went?”
And then—
then—
there’s a car.
Not a dramatic, screeching, movie-moment car,
but just a very ordinary, very beige, very tax-paying-citizen-type car
doing what cars do, which is existing in a place
that I had fully assumed
was only meant for me,
which is a very bad assumption,
as it turns out.
So there’s this moment,
this pause,
this cinematic freeze-frame
where my entire life flashes before my eyes—
and I don’t mean the highlights,
I mean the time I said “You too” to a waiter
who told me to enjoy my meal,
or that disastrous email I sent in 2006
where I used the phrase “circle back”
and have never forgiven myself.
And yet—
the accident never happens.
Or maybe it does, but very slowly,
like an existential fender-bender,
where you’re technically unharmed but still emotionally wrecked,
where you know this moment will linger,
haunt you in grocery store aisles and awkward silences,
remind you that you were here,
on this street,
with this car,
at this hour,
thinking about your stupid hair
instead of the crushing inevitability of mortality.
And the car honks.
And time unsticks itself.
And I step back,
safe, alive,
ready to go home and write about it
instead of doing anything
actually productive.
Oh, love this! Thanks so much for sharing. I'm a candidate for "death by step ladder." I also love the detail of doing something because it makes you feel competent.
Looking at the trinkets, I can sense the quiet side streets where such treasures may be discovered. Your writing prompt could be a series.
Thanks, Joy!
I love this grab bag, Grant!
Thanks, Thaisa!
"exchanged love letters from the corners of our eyes.” Oof. Sure that's not Barbara Cartland : )
Hahahaha about hors-d'œuvre, I tried it and failed.
No one throughout history, except for a few French chefs, have spelled it correctly.
An Accident That Never Ends
——
Okay, so here’s what happened.
I was walking, because of course I was walking—
I walk everywhere, it makes me feel
like a competent person who has their life together,
which, let’s be honest, I absolutely do not.
But I’m walking, and I’m thinking
about something very important,
like whether I should get my hair cut
because it’s been looking a little too “women’s studies professor” lately,
or maybe whether I should finally replace the lightbulb in the kitchen
that’s been out for two weeks because I refuse
to get on a stepladder,
not because I’m afraid of heights but because I don’t
trust myself not to fall
and end up in one of those freak accident obituaries
where people think, “Really? A stepladder? That’s how she went?”
And then—
then—
there’s a car.
Not a dramatic, screeching, movie-moment car,
but just a very ordinary, very beige, very tax-paying-citizen-type car
doing what cars do, which is existing in a place
that I had fully assumed
was only meant for me,
which is a very bad assumption,
as it turns out.
So there’s this moment,
this pause,
this cinematic freeze-frame
where my entire life flashes before my eyes—
and I don’t mean the highlights,
I mean the time I said “You too” to a waiter
who told me to enjoy my meal,
or that disastrous email I sent in 2006
where I used the phrase “circle back”
and have never forgiven myself.
And yet—
the accident never happens.
Or maybe it does, but very slowly,
like an existential fender-bender,
where you’re technically unharmed but still emotionally wrecked,
where you know this moment will linger,
haunt you in grocery store aisles and awkward silences,
remind you that you were here,
on this street,
with this car,
at this hour,
thinking about your stupid hair
instead of the crushing inevitability of mortality.
And the car honks.
And time unsticks itself.
And I step back,
safe, alive,
ready to go home and write about it
instead of doing anything
actually productive.
Oh, love this! Thanks so much for sharing. I'm a candidate for "death by step ladder." I also love the detail of doing something because it makes you feel competent.
Looking at the trinkets, I can sense the quiet side streets where such treasures may be discovered. Your writing prompt could be a series.
Thanks, Joy!
I love this grab bag, Grant!
Thanks, Thaisa!
"exchanged love letters from the corners of our eyes.” Oof. Sure that's not Barbara Cartland : )