I fell. I took a tumble because I lost focus for a mere minute. What’s one minute in a lifetime of minutes? I agree, it was an embarrassing fall, but I haven’t fallen in years. Sorry…but hang in there with me… forgive me. Please! No, he’s gone. A ‘good-bye’ heartlessly conveyed in a text message. I’m stricken and find myself pleading, You’re only gonna’ love me if I’m perfect? One very bad and painful break-up and I suddenly don’t know where to go because I gave him… all of me.
That’s what it felt like when I opened the letter from my insurance company. Apparently two speeding tickets are the equivalent of a major face-plant in the middle of a high society cocktail party because I’ve been cancelled. They don’t want me anymore, even for a higher premium. I feel breathlessly desperate. Like I’ve offered to pay my dream guy to take me the prom and been met with a disgusted look, followed by, “No way! Not for a million bucks.”
I’d been bundled, bowing to their demands, enticed by lower costs. It sounds cozy and convenient, doesn’t it? All of me wrapped in the comfort of being cared for; all my desires conveniently located in one place like a retail store where you can shop in every department but pay at one place. The same appeal of Costco, discounted prices included.
I’m told that they’re dumping all of my insurance because it’s all tied together. But…you insisted…and what’s car insurance got to do with… My protests like a flute trying to rise above the entire percussion section.
I’m in a new city, still trying to find my way around. I might have taken my eye off the speedometer while I was looking for an address, but I was in traffic and following the guy ahead of me. The cop said, “I understand. Welcome to Charleston. Have a nice day,” then handed me the ticket. Both times, I swear.
I haven’t had a traffic infraction in thirty years. And there is no data to support the idea that because I’m traveling 35 mph in a 25 mph zone, that I’m suddenly a reckless driver. As if my car turned into a rocket that’s impossible to steer.
I’m feeling the shame of a spurned lover… the embarrassment of knowing that I was complicit in my own downfall. Not to mention the desperation in realizing that no matter what I do or say, there is no escaping the consequence, no matter how small the transgression. The door is closed, my tearful pleadings a symphony playing to the deaf. Move on… move on.
Okay, so I take a few deep breaths, stanch the tears and wipe the snot bubble from my nose. It’s time to come to terms with this break-up. After all, there’s a lot of fish in the sea, right? NO!
It’s like having a nightmare ex-boyfriend. That guy… the one who would post a picture of your not-so-pretty birthmark on Facebook…and the mark is on your ass. He wants the whole world to know. No… he doesn’t want you, but dumping you isn’t good enough. No… he’s going to make damn sure that nobody else will want you either. It’s starting again… that awful empty feeling. I snatch another tissue and wonder… Who is ever going to love me again?
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