Thrill Ride

So, the other day I was sliding down a giant ice-covered hill in my car, as you do.  Don’t Fear the Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult was playing on the radio, proving beyond any rational doubt that my spirit guides, if I have them, are twats. 

I slid slowly at first, giving me time to consider my options.  If there was ever a time to grab the reigns of my own destiny, now might be the time.  Unfortunately, my choices included veering into oncoming traffic, sliding merrily into the car in front of me who also appeared to have lost all traction (for the sake of their dignity I silently hoped they were listening to another radio station at least) or heading over the cliff on my right and dropping a decent distance into a giant lake. 

Naturally, I had some concerns.  Mostly though, I was pissed about what I was wearing.  When faced with sudden death and the possibility of becoming a vengeful ghost, an ugly Christmas sweater, ill-fitting jeans and toque with giant novelty pom-pom don’t exactly lend gravitas to any after-life situation.

I’m not sure I believe in ghosts, but I like to think I’d have some say in my own image if forced to haunt the living.  If kids say my name three times into a mirror at sleepovers, I should at least try to appear terrifying.  Granted, maybe a newly middle-aged woman in an ugly Christmas sweater brandishing a bottle of wine and weeping about how she never found love would be terrifying for teenagers, so I could be on to something. 

For my friends and family, I’d be benevolent.  A comforting presence.  Invisible finder of car-keys and TV remotes.  Bringer of happy dreams.  I don’t want anybody wondering why I’m wearing such a stupid hat, should I visually manifest.

Of course, I would also have to haunt the shit out of one or two romantic interests.  I would want to be a seductive, succubus of a ghost, all flowy hair and wispy gowns.  I want heart-wrenching regret, sorrowful lust, marriages upended by my very supernatural presence, all floaty and gothic in the corner of the bedroom.  Rolling up through a wall in a green acrylic sweater with a giant embroidered reindeer would really kill the mood, and should I try to get all paranormal sexy, what if my legs are as hairy in the afterlife as they are right now?  Dear God, what then??

I slid faster down the hill, despite managing to turn my wheels to the side, trying to take my chances with the narrow snowbank on the shoulder just before cliff, gravity and freezing water.  I’ve never been good at split-second decisions, or anything in the moment. 

If I went off that cliff, I would be leaving a lot of things said too rarely.  It’s not that I never think of saying them, it’s more I think a beat too slowly.  To my Mom, Dad and sister that I love them, and please don’t look in my bedside drawer.  To my friends, that I love them too – even while sober. To the lady at the Tim Horton’s drive-thru – it’s two cream and two sweeteners.   Seriously – every morning, two of both, not one or the other. To everybody I went to high school with, that while I don’t actively hope they die in a house fire, I wouldn’t be completely devastated if they did.

For some people in my life, I have things I need to say that I’ve never, ever said.  It’s those words trapped forever in the back of my throat like strep, because of fear, or thinking there will be time.  These words are only ever small – I love you.  Thank you.  You hurt me. I’m sorry. I hate you. I need you.  It’s not the size of the words that’s scary, but enormity of impact once spoken. 

I mean, I’ve been sleeping with the same guy for eight years and have never once told him what I need to say.  I’ve thought about it, but the time never felt right.  And I was scared.  And the timing would never be right, because I’d always be scared.  So, I should say it right now, out loud, by myself in a sliding car on an icy hill, just to prove it matters.  I should finally say –

JESUS MOTHERFUCKING CHRIST.

There’s a semi spun-out, horizontal across the intersection at the bottom of the hill.  The car in front of me is turned completely sideways, still sliding, heading for the semi.  The snowbank didn’t slow me down, and I’m heading for the car in front.  Blue Oyster Cult has turned to Mariah Carey singing about all she wants for Christmas and if this is the last song I hear, I will seek revenge.

The car in front rolls to a stop with its driver’s side door inches from the passenger tires of the semi.  I could tell, because I rolled to a diagonal stop, less than two feet from the middle section of the big-rig.

 

I can see the driver of the other car, and her hands are gripping the steering wheel like she’s trying to tear it off, just like mine are. She’s wearing a crocheted animal hat with floppy ears.  Clearly, she dodged an after-life bullet, just like me. 

The semi eventually cleared away, the driver somehow making a 562-point turn.  The cars rolled to a stop all willy-nilly in the intersection, drivers still shaking like dashboard hula-girls finally got to drive away, and carry on to the rest of the highway that was sanded, salted and blessedly melted.

I called my Mom when I got home. Had a glass (read: three glasses) of wine. Shoved the ugly Christmas sweater into the back of my closet, and pulled out better clothing choices for driving in winter weather conditions.  Some might say sequins and lingerie aren’t appropriate, but they don’t know my life, and don’t know what I’ve lived through.