Click here, then read.
Frozen food belongs in the freezer, not in the trunk of your car, a fact that the cruel world threw in my face yesterday. I had just gotten back from the grocery store with loads of stuff—a week’s haul—and was anxious to put my frozen selections away. I can’t pop the trunk from the inside anymore (another broken luxury), so I put the key into the lock on the trunk and…nothing. No turn. A wave of cold fear seeped through me as my hair stood on end, my typical overreaction to dilemmas such as these. Single women always think the worst: There are a thousand splendid pints of colorful sorbet in there that are going to melt all over the inside of my car! And I spent forty bucks on those! Oh my God!
This had happened once before, not long ago, when I had returned from the dry cleaner’s with most of my pants in the trunk. That time I had a dark, foreboding sense that I would have no pants to wear for weeks on end, no access to the pants I wore every day until someone helped me rescue them from the trunk. I would have to wear shorts for the rest of the winter: shorts with long-sleeved sweaters, sandals with socks. My entire personal presentation would change at work and in the world at large because my pants were locked in my trunk, where they would stay until I could find time to see a mechanic.
A man-friend of mine happened to stop by a day after the pants vigil had begun, and when I told him about it, he went to my garage and simply leaned on the car trunk, then turned the key in the lock. Pop! “It just got stuck,” he said. “If this happens again, just press down really hard and it’ll release.”
So there I was yesterday, pressing down on my locked trunk with all my might, in my dark garage (the overhead light doesn’t work…another broken luxury). After much fruitless pressing and self-loathing regarding my lack of upper-body strength, I decided to employ a tactic I learned as a member of my high school track team: the standing broad jump. I stepped away from the car, backing into the rakes and shovels. I crouched down and started swinging my arms, suffering only minor scrapes and bruises from the tools hanging on the garage wall. Bouncing on my toes, I gathered momentum and then hurled myself into the air and onto the trunk of my car, landing on my knees. Ouch.
And even this didn’t work. I tried the key and still no turn. Frustrated beyond reason and unable to accept that my expensive and melting Amy’s Palak Paneer meals were going to waste, I decided that I didn’t care if the trunk got dented or what—I was going press that thing down until it popped like a mo-fo. I stood behind the car facing away from it, my butt just inches from the trunk, and leapt backwards onto it from a crouching position. Crouch, leap, slam; crouch, leap, slam--I did this several times before trying the key in the lock. Pop! Excellent. My body bruised and scratched, my trunk slightly dented, I hauled in my groceries and stocked the freezer first.
I often tell myself, I don’t need a man; I don’t need anything. Except my pants. My pants, my frozen dinners, my dessert, and a lamp…that’s all I need. Not one other thing. And my cats…
If you’d like to share this post, please click on Facebook or e-mail below. Thanks!