During my college years, I returned home to my parents' house once every couple of months to visit. Since my parents installed a pool AFTER I MOVED AWAY, I enjoyed going back home for visits (though I still rue the days I had to run through a sprinkler in the backyard). Since my parents lived in a developing area in the suburbs of Houston, every time I voyaged home the streets, buildings, and landscaping in the area were different, which confused me and caught me off-guard sometimes.
One day, I was driving with my mother through the back of her neighborhood, which at the time was a very winding and narrow set of streets. I was probably driving a little too fast, but I like to think of it as practicing for an emergency in case any one ever slips lead into my shoes. Anyway, I was rounding a bend a little too quickly, when (out of no where, in my opinion) a man appeared. He was talking a walk, probably enjoying the sunshine, when my red car came flashing around the corner. To save his own life, the man jumped, no LEAPED, onto the grass nearby. It all happened so quickly that I really didn't have time to slam on the breaks. It just happened, and then, I was like, "Whew, okay, well I didn't hit him!"
THIS IS THE BEST PART OF THE STORY. Then, one of the strangest things happened. I preface this by saying that when someone has a rush of adrenaline, and then the exciting or scary moment passes, it must be expressed in some manner. Screaming, crying, or sighing might all be ways to do this. What did I do, you ask? I laughed. Hard. The kind of cachinnation where I couldn't catch my breath. The bust-a-rib, tears-in-the-eyes, I-almost-killed-a-man-but-didn't laughing. It just bubbled up and I couldn't contain it. My mother thought that I had lost my mind. Scott still believes that I'm certifiable and he's a little terrified of me behind the wheel.
All I know is that the man who lived to tell the tale today is probably terrified of red Pontiac Grand Ams. Someone probably should warn him that I have a different car now.
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