It snowed in Toronto this morning. Unbeknownst to me, of course, until after I’d woken up. I was formerly an avid Canadian weather watcher but when I realized that they were wrong 90% of the time, I quit watching. The old adage heard in cities ’round the world – “just wait 15 minutes and the weather will change” – is certainly true of this fair city as well. I don’t really do snow, at least when it comes to driving, and because I didn’t know I’d have to deal with the little white bugs today, I got up too late to take transit. I called a colleague who lives in my building, but he had an early morning meeting. Reality was staring me square in the face: I was going to have to drive. Sometimes, you just have to put on your big girl panties and work it out.
Here’s the fun part. In my haste and nervousness about the possibility of sliding off the Gardiner or, say, running down a pedestrian, I clipped a concrete post in my parking garage. I heard the loud “bang” and knew exactly what I’d done. I tried to maintain my equanimity, but uttered an expletive anyway (that can’t be repeated here because my Mom’s reading). So it goes. I could not even bring myself to stop and look at the gash, so I just kept driving – straight to work. Problem-free, I might add.
My beloved (and nearly paid for) car has not been washed in over three months and is therefore covered in a two-inch thick crust of dirt, snow and ice. Actually, I can hardly change lanes on the freeway because I can barely see out. I usually try to take the “glass half full” approach in life and in this scenario it’s as follows: the lovely crust mix has mitigated my ability to see the scrape. For now. Once I wash it, though, the ugly scab on my heretofore perfect vehicle will be completely exposed for all the world to see. Namely me. Oh well, such is life.