Dennis and I set out to house hunt today, but before we could even pull out of the driveway, an unexpected saga unfolded. He was reversing at the speed of a snail with nothing to do and no place to be, and I couldn’t help but giggle. He immediately hit the brakes, mid-driveway, and asked, “What’s so funny?”
“I’m just wondering,” I said, barely suppressing laughter, “how long it’s going to take you to actually back out of this driveway?”
Without missing a beat, he fired back, “Hey! Have I ever had a wreck?”
“Oh, come on,” I said, still laughing. “Who wrecks while backing out of a driveway?”
And that’s when he gave me the look.
You know the one... the one that tells you, you are full of shit! The kind of look that instantly teleports you back to that fateful morning just a few months ago—the morning I boldly underestimated both my depth perception and the width of the garage door frame. The side mirror, dangling heroically from my car like a wounded soldier, its guts strewn across the garage floor and driveway. I had fleetingly wondered, maybe he won’t notice. But then Dennis stormed out of the garage door swearing the entire house shook. SO.....he noticed. I drive a VW and that part was just under $2 Grand to replace....
"oh" I said in defeat.
He just raised an eyebrow and said, “Exactly.”
I sat there, quiet NOW... I might add, contemplating how Dennis always seems to glide through life, unscathed, like some kind of real-life Mr. Darcy—all roses and perfection—while I’m over here collecting dents, awkward moments and large repair bills like they’re a personality trait.
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