My life is a sick joke

It was a simple pursuit for contact solution gone very wrong.
Last Sunday as I made my way to my car parked on top of the Ellis Hill in single-digit temperatures, I even contemplated tossing this pair of contacts, avoiding the cold and just wearing glasses until my new ones came in the mail. However, after 21 years I have come to accept the fact that I have an abnormally large head, which makes glasses and most hats tight-fitting and unattractive.
For the sake of fashion, I endured the 20-yard walk from my front door to where I had parked my car before winter storm Vulcan swallowed Castleton.  My 2006 Chevy Cobalt was in a pocket of snow I intended to blow right out of.
So I scaled the small sheet of ice between my Chevy and the car next to me, hopped in the drivers’ seat, threw my key in the ignition, and whipped it in reverse.
However, this “pocket of snow” cradling my Cobalt was actually a block of ice just waiting to turn my car into the Titanic of the Ellis Hill. Instantly stuck, I threw it in drive as my steering wheel went spinning sending my wheels uncomfortably close to the car next to me. An extra coat of paint may have had tragic results. An over-correction in reverse sent me back into the iceberg.
As I irrationally alternated between drive and reverse a cloud of burning rubber rose around my car as my wheels spun violently. With smoke everywhere and the little patience I have burned out with my tires, I gave it one final hard push of the gas in reverse, which landed me on top of the iceberg with a dead engine and no traction.
Obviously, I was convinced I had ripped every possible part off the bottom of the car, because that’s a completely rational assumption to make.
With the help of some friends I got a shovel and moved some chunks of ice around apparently with the thought process that all a dead engine needs is a little traction.
 In case you were wondering; it doesn’t.
Still without contact solution and potentially car-less, we went inside to call AAA. These are the moments in my life that I envy every person with a basic colored car, you will never understand the shot to the ego it is to provide all of your information and then say, “Yes, my car is purple.”
Yes, purple. Yes, purple was my high school color. No I didn’t pick it out. Thanks Mom and Dad.
After a near two-hour wait for the tow truck driver to finish eating his dinner, he was on his way. However, at this point two cars had illegally parked in the direct line of my tow.
In a call to Public Safety to have the cars removed I was told that they had received a call that “someone was parked like an idiot on the hill.”
My only response was, “I’m the idiot.”
But the idiot with the purple car got the cars removed and with time to spare as the tow truck passed the entrance to the lot three times.
Despite the two-hour delay and single digit temperatures I was still dressed in capri yoga pants, neon sneakers, and a pink fleece; and consequently shaking by the time the tow found my car.
“Ok, so I’m going to hook you up to the truck,” said the driver holding a long metal chain. “Just get in, put it in neutral, hit the break so you don’t slam into me when I stop and just steer when I whip it around.”
Clearly someone had not informed him that I was incapable of steering the first time when I tried to “whip it around.”
Pretty confident that I was going to end up with a dead purple car lodged in the side of Ellis, I got in the drivers’ seat and waited for the tug. Crashing over the iceberg I jerked my wheel and laid on my breaks. Not exactly the directions, but somehow I found myself pointed straight on the pavement.
As I held up my flashlight app, my fingers solidified around my phone and the rest of my body shook while the driver searched under the hood for the battery to give it a jump.
Fun fact: the battery of a 2006 Chevy Cobalt is located in the trunk. However, we did not figure this out until after my phone died and a few failed “here try this” attempts.
I did ask the tow man if he would like to read my manual to help move the process along. I don’t think he appreciated the gesture.
This two-hour ordeal resulted in confirmation of my already strong belief that my life is a sick joke, a dead phone, borrowed contact solution, and a new found fear of the Ellis Hill.

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