YESTERDAY I overheard two women chatting. One said to the other, “That was the biggest mistake of my life.”
Having missed what the mistake was I’ve spent some time since wondering what it might have been? Or for that matter what was my biggest mistake?
Despite much thought, I’ve not managed to come up with any one mistake in particular.
Little doubt there have been many, but I’m blessed with a memory which instantly deletes anything which places me in a less than favourable light.
However, there is a little something I did in the not too distant past which I cannot get away from.
It happened one Tuesday evening.
I had been under pressure before ever stepping out of bed that morning and by the evening it was getting worse.
My brain couldn’t keep up with my thought process. Every time I looked at the clock I’d let out a screech, as it was forever at least 15 minutes ahead of where I’d wished it to be.
With very little time I decided a pasta bake would be quick and easy for dinner. Alas, when I went to serve it I discovered I’d forgotten to add the pasta.
Leaving instructions to my family of less-than-enthusiastic cooks, I raced out of the house. Opening the front door I collided full on with Himself arriving home from work.
“Good evening,” he said cheerily, leaning forward to greet me with a kiss.
However, I had no time for such displays of affection and his kiss met fresh air as I ran to the car.
“Sorry, I’m late,” I shouted.
Sitting into the car I could feel my heart racing from the evening’s rush and it was at exactly that moment I made my mistake. Instead of checking the rear view mirror which would have clearly shown yer man’s car, his pride and joy, parked perpendicular to mine, I checked the clock which caused me to shriek once more, before reversing at speed.
It is not possible to put that word into large enough print to echo what I heard. I sat for a moment puzzled as to why I’d come to such a sudden halt, before remembering meeting Himself on the door step and the missed kiss.
“Yer man’s home! I forgot... I’ve hit his car!”
For a few minutes I sat where I was, in no rush to drive forward and assess the damage. Eventually, I woke up and surprised myself with the variety of colourful language I spoke.
“Maybe it sounded worse than it was?” I thought.
Taking a deep breath I got out to check the damage. The side of yer man’s car was now sporting an enormous dent in the passenger and driver’s doors. It was many times worse than I’d feared.
For just a moment I contemplated the logistics of how I could leave the country.
Like someone on death row taking their final steps, I entered the house and could hear chirpy whistling from the kitchen. The memory of a previous incident involving his car, my forgetting to put on the handbrake and a roll down a hill came to mind, as did his less-than forgiving response. I noted with a little alarm there were no witnesses. My mind was whirring trying to choose the correct words, when out I blurted:
“I crashed into your car and made mush of it.”
For a moment he didn’t move. I wondered if I’d have to tell him again. Finally, I saw him twitch, before he reached out to me saying those magic words,
“It’s only a car.”
Months later I’m still not over it, but I’m hoping this proves beyond all reasonable doubt, that he loves me more than the car.
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