accidents / by mrm

I haven't quite hit on a way to talk about it that isn't melodramatic. Maybe that's unfair, though. Maybe this is just dramatic. I've been defaulting to jokey exuberant (surprise, surprise, I know). Arms wide, eyes wide, voice bright, "You guys," I say, "I got hit by a car!" 

It's much better and less alarming in person than in print, of course, when you have me, alive and whole, standing right in front of you – although I expect the reader to make the key deduction: it can't be too bad if she's blogging about it. And that's true. The fallout has been minimal: some bruises, a scrape on my elbow. More damage was done to my bike, but even then not enough to total it. 

The car drove off. I don't think it's likely they'll be caught, but I'm hoping to be proven wrong. I don't feel vengeful, but I do think this should go on their record, and that they should reimburse me the expense of getting my bike fixed. That's pretty much all I want in the way of outcome.

What beautiful, illuminating, reflective thing do I have to say about this? I don't know. It was terrifying. I thought I was going to die. I probably could have, if a few angles had been different, or if I wasn't wearing a helmet. (I always wear a helmet.) I didn't die. A few days before I was hit, I watched an incredibly disturbing and sad film called Margaret and a few days after I had dinner in pitch blackness at Opaque. So there are some strange collisions of experience in my life lately.

I've found myself wishing that at least some of my bruises were more prominent. (They're pretty much all covered by my clothes.) I've found myself waiting to be asked, how've you been, what's new, etc., because no one looks at me and says, oh my god, what happened to you? And that's damn lucky. But that level of fear? I'm still working it out. And I'm back on my bike.