OK Everybody, Hands Inside the Car

Growing up, I experienced the childhood right-of-passage of having my fingers shut in a car door more than a few times. So it comes as no surprise that, as an adult, I recall those moments with abnormal frequency.

Just last week, as I watched a car door close without incident, I thought to myself, ‘Creepers Les, you avoided the pain of a car door slamming on your fingers for some time. My how your timing is improving. Pat yourself on the back.’’

So when that occasion did indeed repeat itself, all I could do was laugh.

My good friend Suzanne invited me and one of our happy office colleagues to lunch to celebrate said colleague’s birthday. I love being invited to other people’s birthday lunches because I get to enjoy a longer than average lunch (even though my personal average is definitely longer than everyone else’s) and, here’s the important part, I usually don’t have to pay. Plus, I avoid the inevitable chore of answering stupid birthday lunch questions such as:

A) “Tell us about the gift your husband gave you” or

B) “What do you have planned this evening?” Because my answers are always:

A) “No husband means no husband sourced gift” and,

B) “Trying to wrangle a husband” which always leads me to

C) “I buy my own gifts” that inevitably results in

D) “Therefore, I always get what I want.” Heh.

So with was with a big, smart-ass grin on my face that I slinked into the back seat of Suzanne’s car. Giddy with the thought of a big ol’ pizza with my name written all over it landing in front of me, I began chattering away at my annoyingly high octane speed.

Here’s where the Greek tragedy part begins.

While Suzanne motors us down the long office driveway to the restaurant, I’m yammering on about something I can’t even recall when I start screeching, “Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!  Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

Once again, my big, fat mouth is to blame. The sound of my own voice drowned out the hum of the electric window closing. I neither heard nor saw the window heading north with my right hand in perfect position to be squashed directly between the window and the doorframe.

Without noticing the whereabouts of my own right hand, I had closed the car door by pulling on its half-opened window.

Screeching continues.

Volume increases.

Waling ensues.

Hand swells.

My ear piercing shouts render Suzanne discombobulated (which seldom occurs – this girl has the composure thing down pat) and she presses the wrong window buttons. Repeatedly. So the front windows ricochet up and down and up and down and up and down. Meanwhile, the situation in the back seat is not improving. The half of my hand that’s squeezed inside the car is turning red and the half that’s squeezed outside of the car is turning blue.

I’m still yelping in pain hoping my hand splits in half and mercifully ends my discomfort. (I choose dismemberment over pain, which I think is no big deal, since I know the really good hand surgeon in town.  Ain’t that a relief?)

Finally Suzanne presses the correct button and my hand is released from its Honda Accord window death grip.

Am I now living in fear of damage to delicate nerves that could end my fledgling writing career? Living life with joint disfunction? A broken nail? Negative. While I’m gasping in relief I ponder … hmmmm…

If lunch = Work, and hand squashed in car window = Injury, then Work Injury = Worker’s Comp Claim. (Proofs are the only thing I remember from high school geometry where I achieved more than a few A’s, thank you very much.)

Yes ma’am, my stupidity will result in filing an insurance claim. Free money! This someone else’s birthday lunch thing is improving by the second.

So while Suzanne and colleague sympathetically inquire about the status of my almost severed hand I’m yelling, “Worker’s comp! Worker’s Comp!”

I spend the better part of the afternoon away from my desk and my big, fat ‘To Do List’ pleading my case with ‘she who is in charge of workers comp claims.’ Darn if she decides I have no claim and laughs me out of her office. She was not amused.

But I so enjoyed walking around the office all afternoon sporting a big nasty red line of demarcation on my right hand. And, of course, recounting my story.

At least my pizza was good.