I got hit on in the Wegmans parking lot and my hip almost died

I found this blog post in my drafts folder and the date shows I wrote it around the same time I wrote the one about attracting both a wedgie and a horny geriatric in the same afternoon and I remember freaking myself out, convinced I had either developed sudden onset of bad joojoo or a nursing home had peed on me to mark its territory because I could find no other explanations for why I had suddenly become an octogenarian magnet and that might have been the reason I never published it. Either that, or I was suffering from a concussion of my hip.

Either way, this is what you missed last summer:

Yesterday, I was sort of hit on by yet another fossilized Y chromosome, this time in the parking lot of Wegmans and when I say “sort of” I mean that he didn’t so much hit on me as he did, well, hit me. With his 2000+ pound Dodge Ram truck. While in reverse. In the general vicinity of my hip.

It was Thursday and I had gone to Wegmans because that’s what I do on days of the week that have vowels in them and as I left my car and walked to the entrance, I stopped so as not to get in the middle of two women who were preoccupied with backing out of their opposing parking spots and playing chicken with their bumpers. It being 135 degrees outside, I decided not to exert any more energy than absolutely necessary so I didn’t walk around them and instead, I stayed put, out of their way, next to what I thought was a parked truck. Then I simply enjoyed the spectacle of two women yelling and gesticulating and trash talking each other, reveling in the fact that two females were on the verge of bitch slapping each other right in front of me and I did not have to tackle them or confiscate a cell phone, Nintendo DS game or other electronic life line or sit them down for a Come to Jesus talk for the simple fact that neither of them had popped out of my womb after twelve miserable hours of back labor.

And then, without warning, the parked truck I had been standing next to backed up and planted a kiss right on my hip. I jumped out of my skin the way and before I could stop it, a high pitched squealy &!!*%$#@ flew out of my mouth, sailed through the air and smacked the old man driving the truck right between his apparently blind eyes. He hesitated and then continued to back up until his driver’s side window was flush with my face which, coincidentally, was also flush and then he managed an apologetic “Sorry for the tap, Ma’am” and then he drove off before I could find the wherewithal to sue him or scream WAIT A GODDAMN MINUTE. DID YOU JUST CALL ME MA’AM?

Had I been standing farther away than one inch from his bumper and had he been going any faster than .00045 mph when he almost ran me over, things may have turned out drastically different and I’d probably be writing this from my coffin. As it is, I have a molested hip with nothing, not even a scratch, to commemorate the event and therefore I have nothing to talk about on Facebook. You’d think I’d at least have gotten a bruise out of the deal but nada, except for the massive hematoma sprawled all over my ego. Because hello? Since when had I become a “Ma’am?” What the hell was wrong with “Miss?” Or “Pretty Lady?” I mean, if you’re going to commit attempted negligent homicide in reverse upon my person, the least you could do is address me as “Smoking Hot Middle-Aged Babe Who Just About Killed Herself to Lose 45 pounds and Whose Thighs No Longer Rub Together?”

Am I being unreasonable?

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