(Hey y’all. This little thing is called Memoir Monday, and I’d be thrilled if you gave it a shot. Just jot down a story about yourself, grab my code down there, and I’ll link you up to be read by all my wonderful blog buddies. The only rule? It has to be true. I am personally doing what I can to help cure your case of the Mondays. Thanks for playing along!)
You guys all remember the first time I got slapped, right?
No? Well then click that first sentence and go read it.
This is a story about the second time I got slapped. The circumstances were a bit different, but it all boiled down to the same result, which is something I absolutely hated. Getting slapped. Seriously y’all, it makes me want to cry, then it makes me want to punch babies.
When I was 16, I had a car, I had a girlfriend, I still had a dad, I was doing well in school, and I was in my physical prime. I was a beast. A sexy beast. I was living the life.
The car? A 1997 Ford Escort, silver, automatic, and 4 door. It dripped sexy.
Seriously, it wasn’t a showy car, but it was way more dependable than your 1972 Camaro that you always had “in the shop.”
I loved my car. Mostly because I’d been driving a 1992 Ford Aerostar for the last 6 months. I dare you to try to look cool in a minivan. And no, Soccer Mom, you DON’T look cool. I don’t care if it is a hybrid that has 6 DVD players so you don’t have to have any interaction with your children while you’re driving with one hand and texting with another as you barrel down the highway at 98 miles an hour trying to get little Timothy to practice early so hopefully coach won’t make him wear the girls uniform again which makes your husband call his sexuality into question.
I drove my car pretty carefully for the most part. I didn’t have a cell phone then, so for the most part my hands were on the wheel. Not BOTH hands. That’s just not cool. One hand was usually on the radio, the gear shift, or taking part in my most recently discovered favorite past time, HAND HOLDING WITH THE GIRL FRIEND.
Seriously, did it get any better?
I mean, it did. It got WAY better. But for sure, the first time you held hands with someone, wasn’t that the bees knees?
Anyway, I’m driving through a residential neighborhood, one hand on the wheel, one hand in the hand of the lady friend, and we were talking. I briefly took my eyes off the road, and then it happened.
I curbed the car. I immediately did the only useful thing I could think of at the time. I yelled.
The car went quiet for about 2 seconds, then…
I’d been slapped. In the face. Hard. WHILE I WAS DRIVING.
I’m not real sure what happened after that, but I think she laughed about it. I did not laugh about it. You know that moment you have in a relationship where you think, “This might not be working out as well as I thought…”
Yeah… I didn’t have it then. BECAUSE SHE WAS LETTING ME HOLD HER HAND, Y’ALL.
We wound up dating for another year or so, and as far as first girlfriends go, it really wasn’t bad.
I just made sure to not cuss around her ever again.
Other Trips Down Memory Lane This Week: (GO READ THEM)
Erin’s Memoir Monday: My Life In France, or, The Summer I Came Of Age.
Barb’s Memoir Monday.
Ed’s Memoir Monday: My EXP Had More Headjobs Than Me.
Madmother’s Memoir Monday: A Slap In Time.
GB’s Memoir Monday: Probably The Suckiest Thing You’ll Read Today.