Karma, Cameltoe, and Other Things Not Included in the Bill of Rights. (All Quiet on the Western Fwy)
My mother and grandmother always told me to wear clean underwear, lest I should ever find myself struck by an automobile. Yesterday, no more than 36 hours after the afternoon I had spent consoling Mimi when she smashed her car, I was hit by three. Sort of.
I like to think I am a safe but reckless driver. I've gotten lucky or, as my mom would say, my guardian angels have been watching over me and the only two traffic tickets I've ever received happened to take place within the last year. I'm also proud to say the only reported accidents I've ever been involved with have been caused by other drivers.
This time however, it will turn out to be all my fault. I like to
think I could have prevented this somehow but the tragedy of it all is
that I just could not prove otherwise. I was going a moderate speed in
the fast lane, I wasn't in a hurry but no one was passing me. After the
exit for the 5, it slowed down and a 2008 silver Chevy Cobalt weaved
into my lane and braked accordingly. So I slowed down, and even came to
a complete stop when the car in front of me hit the car in front of
them, then shot back and slammed into me.
It all happened so fast. Now it doesn't sound as bad as it was, and
certainly doesn't feel as dramatic as it did then. I freaked out for
about 36 seconds and finally called the CHP. The owner of the vehicle
in front of me got out and picked up the pieces of my car and put them
in my trunk, apologizing the entire time. He seemed to be clearly more
of a mess than I was, and justly so. The freeway was being shut down
entirely so we could move to the right shoulder and I got out to
exchange information with the two other drivers. Amidst all the chaos
that comes with morning traffic in Los Angeles and the residual
aftermath of pumping adrenaline, I remember thinking one of two things:
Thank you Jesus I remembered to wear clean underwear.
I'm a college girl, I like to wear functional clothes that I can also sleep in. I also like to drive barefoot and sometimes even pantsless, as my commute home can sometimes take up to four hours and as a tax-paying American I feel like I'm granted the right of comfort and privacy in my own sedan. But you do not go to a job interview in your pajamas. You can't expect to cross state lines in your bra and stockinged feet, at least not without answering additional questions first. Everything comes with a price, and today you will pay with your credibility. The fact of the matter is: in this country, it doesn't matter what color you are. It may be America, but it is still America. Don't expect the law to be on your side if the best you can do is a hip-length hoodie and an ill-fitting orange thong. Freedom is not free and you're not even registered to vote, motherfucker.
Despite the hoots, hollers and horn-honkings of passing truck drivers, the second thing I remember thinking was that I could still possibly salvage my dignity and patriotism while taking into account the valuable lesson I had learned. It was the least I could do. I then decided that I will continue to wear clean underwear in public, but vowed to also keep a spare pair of pants in the glovebox, next to the registration and proof of insurance-- lest I should ever have to defend my honor on the side of an L.A. freeway again someday.
