Happy first Friday of May! I’m so happy to pronounce that this is my fifth blog post! And I’m kinda chuckling to myself as I’m typing this because, today’s the “story time” blog where you all get to shake your head at me.
Yes, yaaay the embarrassing story post, greeeat.
I was nineteen, engaged in the summer of 2013, and I had flown to Cali to visit my aunt who I crowned as my maid of honor. A week in SoCal, and her and I were flying back to Connecticut where she was to meet my fiancé for the first time. Now, lemme just back up. Chris and I had been dating for about a year and a half, and she’d learned enough about him via Instagram and my phone calls with her. But now, she was coming to put an actual personality to the person. She was coming to see the little life I’d made for myself in Connecticut. I had a job, I had the car that Chris bought me, I was paying my own little bills, I had a baby Finnighan (A dog, not a kid lol)… I was introducing her to a new page in my life.
So, here we come, flying into Bradley International, and it was early. Or at least it felt early. It was early enough to go for breakfast at Vernon Diner. (Yup, the 2AM waffle place, that’s right) And here comes Chris, pulling up to Arrivals in the white Mazda he’d bought me, Missile. Okay, so I don’t remember much between him getting there and him getting us to the diner.
I remember what happened in the parking lot.
He parks Missile. And as we’re getting out, he asks me something along the lines of, “Hey Babe, I’m not gunna be mad or anything, but before your trip did you happen to hit anything?”
And, I’m like, “No, I didn’t crash into anything, why?” And I’m like fretting that he truly thinks I damaged the car somehow, damaged something I didn’t even knowwas damaged.
“Because,” he says, getting out and leading me to the driver’s rear tire, “There’s a scratch.”
Now I’m flustered. Where? Where was this scratch? I didn’t hit anything! Idiot prolly rammed their door into mine! But I look where he’s pointing. There, on the rim, there was a long curving scratch. And because of the way the car was parked, the scratch was at the top, you know…. because, wheels rotate. Insert a No Kidding facial expression here.
He says, “Did you grind up on a curb or something?”
I look from him, to the scratch, and back again. Really? He really thinks I did that? How? How would I even manage to do that?! And the first defensive thing that bursts out of my mouth is:
“Really?! Curbs aren’t that high!”
*Cue the awkward cricket sounds and the omg-eye roll from my aunt
Only then did I realize… Oh…
Yup. That stupidity came out of my mouth. Said stupidity was stupid and hysterical enough that it went into Chris’ phone notes. Curbs… aren’t… that… high. And since, it has grown into a miniature novel titled “Crap My Wife Says” because, apparently, I say some stupid crap. Chris says it’s going to be his retirement. (I secretly encourage it.)