El Accidente

El Accidente sounds like a spicy laxative or a bar in Santa Fe where macho, motorcycle men hang out, drinking tequila straight from the bottles and then smashing them against their foreheads.  In fact, that’s not far from the truth.  Yesterday I was in collision that pretty much knocked my socks off.  Like drinking tequila and swallowing the worm, I left feeling dazed, confused, and not quite sure which way was up.

It started at a parent-teacher conference.  There I was, happy as a clam, leaving the school for my next appointment.  I was driving along, I hadn’t even put the radio on yet, and <BAM!> she ran the red light and got me.  I was in the middle of the intersection and I remember feeling like I was flying.  The world spun.  My car circled the intersection.  I pulled the wheel as hard as I could.  Another car was coming at me.  I pulled harder.  And then it was over.  I was facing in another direction, on the other side of the intersection, in the opposite lane.

El Accidente means that your car looks like the lid of a can of tuna that got pulled back and bent.  El Accidente means that people run to the car afterwards shouting to see if you’re alright.  Worst of all, El Accidente means hitting your head and getting rewarded with one humdinger of a headache and a few hours in the ER.  See?  I told you it was like drinking that bottle of tequila, right down to the blurry vision and the having trouble writing your name.  I was like a tipsy top.

Sadly, my coche (otherwise know as El Guapo, the handsome one, Mi Amor, my love, and Antonio Luis Banderos, no reason on that one) may not make it.  He’s off to see a car doctor and I fear for the worst.  No matter what happens though, I will always love him and I will always thank him for protecting me and for taking care of my life.  In El Accidente, he was my hero, my shiny knight.


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