Sunday, August 5th MW scrapped the right side of the car all to hell against a concrete post in the Galleria's parking garage. She misjudged the spacing and just kept going.
$5,000+ worth of damage.
Even before then, MW was all over the road - cruising the shoulders; never between the lines. I'm riding shotgun, knuckles white from gripping the armrests, afraid to mention her erratic behavior because past experience dictates that'll get me screamed at.
On the bright side, nobody got hurt and she kinda agreed to let me drive from now on. She readily understood that she shouldn't go into any more parking garages, but her plan was to drive to empty lots close to our destination and then let me take the driver's seat for parking in a garage when necessary.
Not very efficient, but better than 1) letting fear take over and 2) letting me drive because I'm a terrible driver. Either too fast or too slow. Never just right. Don't even talk about how I've never had an accident or any kind of speeding ticket or moving violation - not since I was a teenager - because that doesn't mean anything. I'm still a horrible driver.
Here's how I countered those arguments:
1) (Borrowed from Nero Wolfe) We can avoid folly without backing into fear. MW shouldn't be afraid to drive, but when she has a passenger (me) she becomes distracted by conversation. In reality, she talks incessantly and likes to look at the person she's addressing. This is problematic when behind the wheel as her eyes are rarely on the road.
2) Give me a chance to prove I'm such a bad driver. After all, within the last three years, MW has had one terrible accident and countless bumps and scrapes. Both cars look like demolition derby rejects. So, yeah, maybe I'm always too fast or too slow or too stupid to drive; so why not prove it? Let me get into some accidents for a change.
Finally! Logic MW can get behind.
So now I'm driving. At least on the weekends. During the week when I'm not at home is another story; one which will likely not have a happy ending.
***
Last month MW had two doors replaced. The thresholds of the replacements are higher than what had been there. Thus, MW lost all semblance of control over tripping concerns. We drove to Wal-Mart at midnight to buy reflective tape to stick around the door as a warning. The entire door and surroundings are covered by signs; buckets and broom-pans are set around the entry to prevent anyone from moving too fast over the terrifying thresholds.
Typical behavior. Well, maybe a tick or two above typical. MW just could not reconcile having a half-inch threshold to navigate - she wailed and cried as if she had become a prisoner in her own home because there was no safe way to step through the new doors.
What was notable, however, was the power of deniability MW displayed when confronted by reality.
She'd been going on for hours about how dangerous the doors were and trying to figure out a way to make them safe. Then, after rejecting all my suggestions (she almost agreed to having handicap ramps installed, but balked because you could fall off the ramps' edges), in a pique of frustration, I said it was something we might just have to learn to live with. After all, outside the house, there are plenty of thresholds; many even taller than ours. Uneven sidewalks, curbs, cracks; nothing is 100% safe. The only way to guarantee you won't trip and fall over something is to ride around in a wheelchair, I said. Did you want to buy a wheelchair? I asked.
MW looked at me for a moment. Her brow furrowed briefly, as if recognizing an unpleasant truth about her future, then she went on rallying against thresholds; totally ignoring everything I'd said.
Denial. Such a powerful thing.
***
Comic relief time:
The pendulum had swung back to "drink!" and I'd decided to buy wine during lunch at work. Eager to get to the grocery store, I decided to hurry across the street NOT at the crosswalk. A diabolically hidden sprinkler connector in the scrub-land between sidewalk and street caught my foot as expertly as a Viet Cong tripwire.
I went down. Hard. Right on the street. Had a car been coming, it would have crushed my torso.
My shin, knee and palms were wrecked - flayed flesh, bleeding, pants ruined.
Perfect. And it gets better.
I took myself to CVS for hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin and bandadges. On the way out, a bird shits on my shoulder.
But that's not all.
I know I have to hide the wounds from MW. She doesn't handle these things very well. So I start wearing long pants around the house with a flesh colored bandage on my hand. Fortunately, MW isn't very aware of her environment these days, so she doesn't notice that I'm wearing long flannel PJ bottoms when it's 100 degrees outside or that my palm is almost completely covered by a bandage.
And then MW steps on a piece of glass in the kitchen. Just a sliver; probably from something she broke, but it's enough to send her over.
I'm responsible for the glass being there. I must have carried it in from outside on the cuff of my long pants. She demands I take them off and put on shorts.
Oh goddamnit.
At least the leg had had some time to heal by then, so MW didn't completely lose her mind about it. Still, it all goes to show how wonderful life really is.
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