A Bang-Up Job

I look at all new female acquaintances as potential BFFs. I can't help it. I'll meet someone really cool, and if we hit it off (which we almost always do because I am like completely awesome), I immediately start envisioning a lifelong relationship with the person. I'm like the platonic equivalent of those girls who spend an entire first date secretly fantasizing about how this new guy will someday propose, and what their children will look like. Only I'm picturing my new friend and I as little old ladies sitting next to each other in a retirement home somewhere, wearing our glasses and our shawls and our hand-sewn lap quilts. And we'd be like, "Remember the day we met?" and then, in my daydream, our future-old-lady selves will discuss whatever scenario we're in at the present moment: "We were reaching for the same clearance item at Walmart" or "Our dogs were trying to hump each other at the dog park." And then little-old-lady-me would say, "Little did we know that we would become ..." and then in unison, we'd say, "... the best of friends" and look at one another all lovingly. Aaaaaaand scene.

I know. I sound like a total creepster. But it's true. I guess I'm just slightly crazed desperate for more females in my life (seeing as all my oldest girlfriends live four hours away and my house is full of dudes). I mean, remember how determined I was to impress my friend Nicki when she first moved in across the street? Yeah. I'm like that overly eager dog at the pound who is bouncing off the walls of its cage like, "Pick me! Pick me! Pick me! Pick me! Pick me! Pick me! Pick me! Pick meeeeeeeeeeee!"

That being said, you can imagine the number of octagenarian-porch-sitting fantasies I've had about my friend Lindsey. She started off as my Zumba instructor, then started showing me the ropes and letting me stand up front with her during class. And in the process, we've developed a friendship and - dare I say - have bonded pretty nicely. We have a lot in common. We both love to dance around like fools. I feel comfortable letting an occasional F-bomb slip out in her presence (as in the F-word, not a fart. Although some day ... some day ...). She's someone I can see many good times with in the future.

So when she was off work yesterday and came to my house to hang around with me, I was nearly beside myself with joy. We were practicing some new Zumba choreography and just generally being awesome and having a grand old time when I realized that it was time to pick Colin up from school. So I asked Lindsey if she wanted to come along, because picking up a first-grader is like among THE most thrilling activities a person can do. So we loaded into the Blue Hoopty (aka the '90s-era Buick LeSabre that once belonged to my grandparents. Don't lie, you're totally jealous).

We have a two-car garage, but it seems like whoever designed it was all, "I'll make this two car garage ... for two tiny cars. Bwahahahaha!" Because the Jeep and the Hoopty barely fit in together. So when I back either one out, I have to cut the wheel and angle the vehicle toward the center of the driveway to avoid hitting the side mirror on the edges of the garage door. I do this automatically now. Just as I did yesterday.

Only most of the time? There's no one parked in my driveway.

Only yesterday? Lindsey was.

Scr-r-r-r-r-a-a-a-ape.

Immediately I was flooded with this hot panicky feeling like "OMFG I just hit Lindsey's car!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I glanced at her, and she was just sitting there like she didn't notice, and I think I might've said, "OMFG I just hit your car!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"You did?" she said, eyes widening with surprise.

Please don't hate me please don't hate me please don't hate me please don't hate me. " ..... Yes."

We got out and looked, and sure enough, the Blue Hoopty had scratched a chunk of paint right off and left a few scrape-y looking marks. I mean, it was fairly superficial, but still. I was mortified. I've never hit anything, ever. Not even so much as a trash can or a curb. My driving record is sterling: no tickets, no accidents, nada. So to spoil my perfect accident-less streak by scraping up the car of a potential BFF was, well, painful.

I was scared that Lindsey would be really pissed, but she was a sport and kept reassuring me that it wasn't a big deal. And I'm all insured and whatnot, so the repairs will be taken care of. So hopefully my moronic mistake won't leave a permanent blemish on her car - OR on our friendship.

Maybe someday we'll be sitting on the porch of a retirement home, she and I, and I'll say, "Dude. Remember that one time, when I hit your car?" And we'll both laugh in our croaky old-lady voices.

Maybe.