05.11.2008 - 2:10 p.m.

For my friend of twelve years, who got married on Saturday, I primped and curled, held hair implements for her, allowed a stranger to make me up, ran several last-minute errands, wore a dress that I would never have chosen for myself, and hugged her to help the shakes ebb after she had said the words. It was beautiful. I'm glad I was there.

For my mother, I made my husband drive me to a grocery store where I chose flowers and a card, and I stayed at her house at least an hour longer than I wanted to, by that point. She was touched, even if I'd once meant to stay the Sunday, while my husband went on to make his own visits. I'm glad I did what I could.

For my husband, I went to a party for a woman who was a second mother to him, and who I barely know. But it was fun. I'm glad I let him convince me to go.

For the friends we never get to see, I dragged myself to a bar after that. They had fun, and I almost did, but I also had a drink named after my car. It was a poor choice.

For my car, Alexander, who spent the whole weekend at the body shop, waiting to be put down, I cried silently, whenever the action ebbed, and then not silently for the last half of the last ride home. I am sorry I scared my husband.

Before he was laid off, I'd never really understood that life's difficulties aren't all self-inflicted. Perhaps I'd been lucky, but never before had the world just thrown something at me like that. Out of nowhere, with such force behind it.

Friday evening, what it threw was a Chevy Tahoe. Right at my driver's-side door.

-stonebridge

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