A Whole New Level of "Speedy"

Two months ago, I became the delighted owner of a new-to-me car. Last weekend, I climbed into the passenger side and noticed a chip in the windshield. When did that happen? I’d been down my son’s gravel road, but I hadn’t heard anything. Hubby climbed in behind the wheel and had to lean to see what I was pointing at since the rear view mirror blocked it from his view. He’d driven the car a few times, too, but neither of us had heard anything hit the window.

Best to get it dealt with quickly. I called Speedy Glass and booked the car in for nine a.m. the next day. Walked in, did the paperwork, handed the nice man my car key, and settled into their waiting area with a book, expecting a half hour wait. Not five minutes later, the man returned.

“Is there another chip somewhere?” He asked. “Were you concerned about the one on the right?”

I didn’t understand his question. Were they already done?

“Follow me, I’ll show you what I mean,” he said.

I did. Another man was carefully cleaning my windshield and I was glad to see he’d removed a large splotch of stubborn bird poop. My stone chip, however, remained.

“See, this is an old one,” the first guy told me. “It’s already been repaired. By the lines around it, you can tell how big it was to begin with.”

Oh. How silly of me. How had we taken so long to notice?

I assured them the windshield had no other chips, and they assured me the repair was as good as it gets. I took comfort in my clean windshield and in knowing Hubby hadn’t realized the chip was repaired, either. I was home by ten after nine, feeling a bit ridiculous.

But not as ridiculous as I felt when I glanced in the mirror and saw that I was wearing two pairs of glasses—one on my eyes and one on the top of my head.

I’d worn my driving glasses to the shop and pushed them up to sign the form. When I sat down to wait, I pulled a different pair from my purse for reading.

Too many ironies to process. Like the fact that the glasses covering my eyes were bifocals, designed for reading on the bottom and driving on the top. They’d have served me just fine, all morning, all by themselves.

Or the fact that my last two eye check-ups confirmed I no longer need glasses for driving and MPI had removed that condition from my license. When I do wear glasses behind the wheel, it’s merely a security blanket for myself.

Or the fact that I wouldn’t have needed to leave my house at all that day, given the stone chip in my windshield had been repaired years ago.

No wonder those Speedy guys were so smiley. They probably found humor in the fact that I’m a tad… well … not so speedy. I cling to Proverbs 11:2. “…with humility comes wisdom.”

Naturally, I took a selfie modelling both pairs of glasses and shared it with my Facebook world who quickly responded with numerous comments and likes. We all appreciate knowing others do dumb things, right? My friend Gloria wrote, “Good on you for being able to laugh at yourself. We all do crazy things but then don’t want anyone to know! You help us to relax!”

To which I quite honestly replied, “Somehow I have the feeling I’m only getting warmed up.”

 

Blind Date

The Sunday of Labor Day weekend, hubby and I took a little day trip. I could not recall the last time I’d been out of town, and we hadn’t done anything even remotely resembling “summer vacation.” The weather was perfect. We grabbed sandwiches at Subway and headed down the highway to Spruce Woods Provincial Park, which we hadn’t visited in over a decade.

Before starting out on what turned into a lovely hike, we stopped to use the washrooms. I’d never given much thought to how, when you pull open the door of a washroom—or any room you’ve never entered—you must “get your bearings” before doing anything else. Before I had a chance to do so, however, the door slammed shut behind me and I found myself in utter darkness. Had the bulbs burned out? Did someone blow a breaker? Why was there no window?

I thought I heard something. “Is anyone else in here?” I called.

No response.

I groped around, finding nothing but air. I managed to turn myself around, and when I finally felt the cool metal of the door, I realized how unobservant I am. Had the handle been on the right or left? Was it the kind you turn? Had I pulled or pushed? I hadn’t taken note of any of those things.

For the life of me, I could not find the handle! Maybe they’d installed one of those doors with a handle only on the outside and from the inside, you merely pushed. But then why didn’t it budge when I pushed? Had I dropped into some weird science fiction story where the door handle disappears and locks you in? I started banging on the door, knowing hubby had opted to wait on the bench outside with our water bottles. I called his name. I haven’t felt such a persistent “get me outta here” feeling since high school Algebra class.

About the same time hubby reached the door (wondering what on earth was wrong with me), I found the handle, turned it, and pulled. I should have pushed. Good grief.

When the door finally opened, sunlight flooded the room and a light switch appeared on the wall beside me—right where one might expect to find a light switch if one was expecting to need a light switch.

When I completed what I’d come for and turned to leave, I noticed a sign on the inside of the door: “To save energy, please turn off lights when you leave.” Wouldn’t a warning on the outside be a good idea? Frustrated and humiliated, I left the light on to spare the next person. While taking my turn on the bench with the water bottles, some other women came along. I suddenly wished I’d obeyed the sign, so I could determine whether I was the only one dopey enough to panic. Not until the next day did it dawn on me that my cell phone was in my backpack and would have provided a perfect flashlight. Duh.

The whole ordeal, though it took mere seconds, helped me realize how much I take my sight for granted. Last year I interviewed Gene McKenzie for a three-part series you may remember. He told me blindness can be exhausting because you must engage your brain in so many extra ways, not only utilizing your other senses but your observation skills and your memory, since your eyes can no longer tell you what’s what. Nothing like a teensy dose of personal experience to help me “see” what he meant.

That series about Gene, Lessons from a Blind Man, is in the running for a Word Guild Award. The winner will be announced tomorrow, September 25th, in a virtual ceremony from Toronto. If it wins, I’ll owe Gene even more gratitude.

For my vision, I owe my Creator gratitude every day of my life.