The automatic doors of the grocery store slid open, and I trudged out into the parking lot, weighed down by reusable bags and existential dread. I was exhausted. My brain was in that fuzzy, autopilot state where you could walk into a pole and apologize to it.
I scanned the rows of cars until I saw it: the beacon of salvation. The silver Honda.
I marched up to the passenger side, yanked the door open, and threw myself into the seat. I didn’t look at the driver. I just slumped back, closing my eyes, letting the air conditioning hit my face.
“‘I’m so tired, just drive,’” I groaned, tossing my head back against the headrest.
The car didn’t move. There was a polite, confused silence.
I opened one eye, annoyed. “Honey, did you hear me? I said…”
I turned my head. My husband, Mark, was not in the driver’s seat. In fact, my husband was likely three aisles over, wondering where I was.
The driver turned to look at me. He had kind eyes, white hair, and was wearing a very distinctive black shirt with a white collar.
It was an elderly priest.
I froze. I had just commanded a servant of God to be my chauffeur. I was in the wrong silver Honda.
The priest smiled benevolently. “My child, are we going to Bingo?”
The shame hit me like a physical blow. I didn’t offer an explanation. I didn’t apologize. Panic took the wheel. My Catholic upbringing kicked in instinctively.
I blessed myself. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Honda.
Then, I did the only rational thing a person can do in that situation. I didn’t wait for the car to stop; I didn’t wait to open the door politely.
I rolled out of the moving car.
I hit the asphalt, scrambled to my feet, and sprinted away leaving my dignity—and possibly my milk—in the backseat of Father O’Malley’s sedan.
