Day five of a new job and…I’m a little bored.
The woman who’s place I’ll be taking has a large hub-cap sized clock hung about 2 feet away from where I’m sitting, at eye level (it’s 1:32pm, fyi) featuring large numbers and a hard-to-miss jiggly red hand ticking off the seconds of what promises to be a very long afternoon. Hopefully she takes it with her.
Another colleague just handed me tickets to the State Fair, good for admission on any day. After last year, I vowed to never go again but what I’d forgotten about when making that reckless oath, what I’d failed to take into consideration doing a great disservice to myself to the near ruin of my life’s happiness, was The Demolition Derby. Sunday. Championships. I will be there*.
I scream when spiders broach my field of vision, love to drench myself in yummy perfume and enjoy wearing gorgeous shoes but all girly behavior goes right out the window around cars. I love them. I love to drive them, I love to make their tires scream, I love to shop for them and harrass the owners of my dream-cars for an opportunity to sit behind the wheel or maybe just touch the keys? Run my finger along the perfectly waxed bodywork without getting mauled because I can’t run in these heels?
On my bucketlist, right up there with being propelled into space in a vehicle guaranteed to return safely or being bossed around by Daniel Day-Lewis is having a demolition derby car. And then driving it, obviously. In a demolition derby.
I came close several years ago. A friend of mine and I lived downtown and the only purpose the car was serving was to collect parking tickets and to give us a reason to run outside on rainy afternoons when the parking was about to expire. The car was a source of great misery instead of the joy of freedom that vehicles are meant to provide.
“You know what would be great” he said to me one afternoon while researching online how to remove the mechanical boot from the wheel of the car that a parking nazi had stuck on it Friday night thereby ruining the whole weekend, “is if we could destroy it in some kind of epic way.” His eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look. “Like drop a wrecking ball on it, I can probably get my hands on a wrecking ball. Or blow it up without getting arrested.”
Yes. Yes, this would be great. I pictured a craterized volvo, cinders of blackened earth where the car had once stood and children finding bits of bolts in their distant sandboxes for years afterwards. That would be great. But what would also be great, I said, would be to demolish it in a demolition derby!
He thought this was genius and, having found highly illegal step-by-step instructions on how to remove the boot, he went on to research how to transform a volvo into a demolition derby car.
“It has to be a domestic car!”
This was bad news. This was terrible news, especially as I had just sold my POS but still running turquoise oldsmobile V8 three months before for $250. The olds and I would’ve destroyed a demolition derby. We would have made grown men cry. Now, years later, I drive a foreign little CUV & not only is it not allowed to be a demolition derby car, but it is also not elligible for auto-cross.
So I have to live vicariously through others. Sunday. State Fair. The championships. Hooray!
*Unless the world really does end on the 21st or unless I die at the toughmudder this weekend.