10-17 web

Ru-u-u-un, Vicki, Ru-u-u-un!
By: Vicki Wentz / Vicki’s Voice
As my parents began aging...and, ok,
me, too...I learned many ways to tell if
someone was (a) having a stroke; (b) developing
a cognitive function disorder; or (c) extremely drunk. Over time, I
became reasonably good at discerning those subtle differences.
Because of this recently acquired expertise, based on what happened to
me last month, I am thoroughly confident that I must be, (d) all of the
above.
I called my children and, after relating the episode and my probable
all-of-the-above status, I just asked them not to put me in a home. Their
identical response? “Well, certainly not MY home!” (I don’t know where
they got that sarcastic sense of humor, but it’s very unbecoming.)
Let me just say at the outset that I am fine, everyone is fine, no laws
were violated (sort of), and there was no public indecency (sorry). In
fact, if anything, besides my possibly being all-of-the-above, it was clear
afterwards that my inherent athleticism is still with me...buried deep...
deep... deeeep inside.
It was late afternoon. I was tired. I had gone to water aerobics class,
done my knee exercises, gone to the bank, the post office and the grocery
store.
But, being the “mother” of three dogs that are all - quite seriously,
as you will see - driving me nutty with their neediness, and since I was
driving right by the pet store, in the same shopping center, I thought I’d
just pop my head in (literally) and ask someone if they had a chew treat
I heard of called “Calm.” I figured a few of these with my morning coffee
might take the edge off.
So, I pulled up at the curb in front of the store - I know you’re not
supposed to park there, but I was just poking my freakin’ head in (what
are you, Pistol Pete?!) and grabbed some trash I’d accumulated, to pop
into the waste bin outside their door. I even left my car door open!
But, as I’m tossing the trash, I see in my peripheral vision my car...
slowly driving away.
This is where my athleticism shows up, because without thinking I
began to run. Didn’t consider that my knee is almost non-functional now,
or that the arthritis in my formerly-broken ankles may be terminal, or
that I haven’t run since high school P.E. at St. Joe’s, which I flunked...or
that I’m like a thousand years old. I just ran.
The car was going slow and sort of curving into the parking lot across
from the store - a lot filled with cars, one of which was backing out right
towards my oncoming RAV4. I screamed, “Look out!” as loud as I could,
and the guy took off (I’ve always prided myself on my voice projection
capabilities) and I powered on the afterburners, baby!
As I drew even with the open driver’s door, it flashed through my mind
that I was about to do something “they” tell you never to do - jump into a
moving car. (It also flashed through my mind that I was behaving rather
“Charlie’s Angels”-like, if I do say so myself.)
So, as my car traveled the final distance to several parked cars, I threw
myself sideways, hauled my legs inside and slammed down the brake
pedal. The car stopped - less than a foot from someone’s bumper.
A man standing nearby, who’d watched the whole thing in stunned,
wide-eyed wonder, simply stared at me and shook his head as he climbed
into his own car, no doubt thinking, “Women! Nothing’s been safe since
we gave them the vote!”
Vicki Wentz is a writer, teacher and speaker living in North
Carolina. Readers may contact her - and order her new children’s
book! - by visiting her website at www.vickiwentz.com.
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September 2017
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