A Truck is a Truck is a Truck. Right?

There was a time when I was still working for my old company that I was asked to go train a new hire in the Philadelphia area. Normally when I'd train someone, it would last a week and that person would drive the entire time.

The woman I was sent to train this time had a streak of bad luck leading up to her first day that seriously rivaled my kind of luck. If I remember correctly, her car was stolen the previous week and hadn't yet turned up. She had been driving her significant others truck when, the night before, the brakes stopped working and she wrecked on one of the bridges around Philly. God love her though, she still wanted to get her training in, and so I ended up driving most of the week. Most of the week passed without incident; then she got her vehicle back. I took that as my cue to show her what a genius I can be.

The day she got her truck back, she picked me up and I asked her to stop at a convenience store so I could grab a drink. Those of you who know me know I drink a lot. (and not like that smartasses...ok, yes like that, but not this day.) She pulled into Wawa and I jumped out for a drink and she waited. After I made my purchases, I walked out of the store, paying little attention to anything but my feet (we all know how clumsy I am, and I try to restrain myself from falling over my own two feet when I am just getting to know a person—good first impressions and all).

I jumped in the truck, pulled my water out of the bag and started to take a big drink. It was that moment the guy that had been sitting in the drivers seat chose to say, “I think you're in the wrong car.”
I spit my drink all over the place and screamed bloody murder as if he pulled a knife and announced ‘this is a stickup’. I screamed as if I belonged in his truck and he didn't. While I was screaming I pushed myself out of the truck, falling to the ground, and leaving behind everything...the coveted drink, my purse...In a state of confusion, I jumped up from the ground in an all encompassing panic. While I was brushing dirt from my bum, I looked around to see the poor woman I was training sitting right behind him in the truck I was supposed to get into laughing so hard I thought her head would pop off. A relief really…she was a refuge from having to look in at that man any longer. Plus, I needed to laugh about being an idiot.

I ran/crawled to her truck, jumped in, and through sobs of uncontrollable laughter asked why she didn't yell at me. Her answer?, “because my window wouldn't open”.

I guess she was laughing too hard to open the door. Lord knows I would have been if I had been in her position.

When we finally pulled ourselves together, she pulled up so I could kindly ask the nice toothless man for my stuff and to apologize for screaming like a maniac at him. Once I got through that the guy said to me, “you can always get back in if you like.” My barely restrained, cracking voice nearly gave out to a new fit of laugher, but I thanked him kindly. You know...I only have it in me to deal with one trauma per hour.

The sad part of this…even though both vehicles were American made SUV’s, one was dark green, the other dark blue. I can’t even use an excuse like whoopsie, I’m color blind.

However, I remind myself every time I think of this that they both did have longer blonde hair. I’m grasping, yes…but it’s my reality. Care to join me?