It’s Official—I’m Getting Old

It finally happened. One of those things I thought would never happen to me. One of those things I’ve heard about and laughed at the person who did it. I guess it was just a matter of time, and here I am now, counting the down the days to sitting in my rocking chair and yelling at the kids to get off my lawn.

One evening last week, I ran out to the Royal Farms on 175. I went in, grabbed a few things, and surprisingly enough, was able to check out without the typical five minute wait. With a baggie full of goodies, I walked toward my car.

I was briefly distracted by a guy putting oil in his car. A typical sight at a gas station/convenience store, I guess. But with his Papa John’s delivery sign on his roof, I was distracted by the thought that maybe he was out on a delivery when he had to stop for oil. Is this why my pizza’s late sometimes? Is there some guy with the munchies pacing and staring out the window waiting for this guy to show up with his nibbles? Who knows?

As I walked by the pizza/oil guy, I also had to pass the Red Box. If you really wants to see a perfect cross-section of the community, just sit and watch the patrons of any Red Box. This thing sees it all. And on this night, it was seeing a young, jerky looking kid. Why isn’t he at home doing his homework? Why is he renting a movie this late on a school night? Whatever. I really don’t care.

I then walked up to my car, hit the unlock button, and opened the door. With my keys in one hand and my bag in the other, I just stood there for a few seconds. Something didn’t seem right. My car smelled funny. The seat was reclined a lot more than it should be. There was something in the back seat that I didn’t recognize. I looked back and forth a few times. Front seat. Back seat. Keys. Steering wheel. Front seat. Odd thing in the back seat.

That’s when it hit me.

“This isn’t my car,” I said to no one in particular. Though the pizza guy, still under his hood, looked at me. “Nope. This isn’t my car,” I said to him. I looked one more space over, and there it was—my now suddenly very generic Civic.

I closed the door of the car imposter. I looked around to make sure there wasn’t some angry owner coming over to beat the hell out of me for trying to steal his car. And then I did the walk of shame to my car.

We’ve all heard stories of people trying to start the wrong car, or the story from Christmas where a woman put her gifts in the wrong trunk. And just as you think this will never happen to you, I once had these same thoughts. But now, I know. I know that ordinary, routine tasks can sometimes lead to great adventure and a somewhat humorous story.

Do you have your own brain-fail moment you’d like to share? Ever try to get in the wrong car? We’re all friends here. Let’s share and end the stigma of WCS (Wrong Car Syndrome).