I’ve been mentally composing a letter that will never find its way to its intended recipient:
While I would hesitate to advocate violence in response to your crime, I must admit that I would find it difficult to be unhappy if someone were to smash in your teeth the way you smashed in my car window. The poetic justice of that particular revenge fantasy appeals to me on a deep and somewhat disturbing level.
The owner of a glass-strewn and extremely well-ventilated vehicle
So, remember that relaxing Shabbat I was planning to enjoy? The one where I was going to unplug from the world for a time and enjoy a little spiritual renewal? It was not to be.
My day had been going quite well until my doorbell rang; I answered it to find my neighbor on my porch asking me if I’d seen my car. Thinking she was referring to the flat tire we hadn’t yet gotten around to fixing, I said yes, thank you for pointing it out, we’re planning on getting all new tires anyway.
“No, not that! Your window, did you see your window?”
I had not. Nor was I, apparently, destined ever to see it in one piece again, for the glass on the driver’s side had been transformed from a functional car window into a sparkly collection of glass shards, a swath of glitter bestowed liberally on the street in front of my house and the interior of my poor car.
Most of you reading this are probably familiar with the Military Spouse Corollary to Murphy’s Law: “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong while your other half is out of town.” My husband had already been away for most of the week, and at the moment my day of rest was so rudely interrupted, was living it up at an airshow and having all manner of amazing aerial experiences of which I would have been extremely envious at the best of times.
Get this: while I was making a police report and trying to sweep up a million shards of broken glass without cutting myself and taping a garbage bag over the gaping hole in my car, that lucky so-and-so I married was getting to ride in “Fat Albert.” You know, the C-130 in the Blue Angels?
The Blue freakin’ Angels, y’all.
I’m so jealous I could just spit.
I love sharing so many interests with my husband, especially a fascination with aviation. Sometimes, though — if I’m being totally honest — it is hard to see him get to do things that I would love to do and experience things about which I can only dream. And when I hear about something like that when I am stuck at home having a horrendous day… well.
Please don’t misunderstand: I truly am excited for him when he is presented with these incredible opportunities, and I would never want him not to take advantage of such a chance just because I would envy him. I love hearing the joy in his voice when he shares this or that story with me.
Yesterday, though? You’re damn right I would have traded places with him. When I told him as much, he understood (of course he did; he’s a pretty wonderful guy like that). We agreed that it would be only fair if next time, I went gallivanting off to the air show and he stayed home to deal with any crap that might arise.
You don’t think his squadron will mind when I show up in his place for the next cross-country, do you?