There are moments when fate and sheer stupidity conspire to hit you with what my father-in-law calls a dope-slap. Of course, this backhand of reality can be painfully humiliating to the ego -- especially when the key cause dangles behind locked doors.
Locking the keys in your car is one of life's gotcha moments. It can also be one of those kick-the-tires, sob-uncontrollably-on-the-hood, string-together-obscenities-that-make-no-sense-grammatically moments. Amazingly, it took thousands of variables to arrive at this locked car crux, but only one nincompoop.
Like most other locked-out incidents, my latest episode was self-inflicted. The simple truth: I alone hit the car key fob lock button. However, no one wants to be held totally accountable for their actions.
With that in mind, President-elect Barack Obama and Senator John McCain locked me out of my Jeep.
Naturally, the morning in question started out rather routine. After corralling the first-grader onto the school bus and the barking dog into the house, I had three minutes to spare before speeding off to work. Plenty of time to forget my brown bag lunch in the refrigerator for the third day in a row. I also decided to use this free time to run out and retrieve the keepsake post-Election Day newspaper.
Unfortunately, the next seven seconds would add up to 30 minutes of broken blood vessel rage and sweet-talking a coat hanger. In order: accidently lock vehicle, start said vehicle, shut driver's door on said vehicle. You don't want to know what I said next. Just before the swear-bombs detonated, there was a moment of slack-jaw disbelief followed by that Zen-like clarity of my own stupidity.
Rather than take my frustration out on the fenders, I experienced door handle denial. It's funny how a person looks stunned when a blatantly locked door won't budge. Actually, this type of humor is better observed rather than experienced up close and too personal.
Now those blessed with common sense would rectify this conundrum with a quick phone call. The rest of us grab a coat hanger -- or sheepishly borrow one from the next-door neighbor. Unfortunately, I found a window of opportunity -- actually a slightly ajar door -- to test my "Gone in 60 Seconds" car boosting ability.
For the next half hour I tried to bend the coat hanger to my will. My efforts only served as a painful reminded of my C- grade in geometry. Each new kink would bring me agonizingly closer to the lock button, but with the torque of a wet noodle. I contemplated the insurance deductible of a broken window -- but thought better of hand X-rays and co-pay.
Then, for some inexplicable reason, sheer stupidity morphed into dumb luck. I popped the lock. Several Tiger Woods fist pumps later, I was on my way to work. I would have high-fived myself, but the paint scratches caused by the coat hanger might be more deserving of another sort of slap.
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