On Easter, 2001, I was leaving Boston Market with a meal for six when I was hit by a car that was speeding around the building and into the parking lot. I was thrown over the hood of the car, spilling my food all over the jerk’s windshield and knocking me to the pavement. The accident resulted in a massive charlie horse on my left leg where the car had initially struck me, a scraped elbow and knee and a bump on the head, but it wasn’t enough to call the police. I made the guy replace my food, throw in a couple pies, and we called it even.
I had forgotten about that accident until a few days ago, when a trip to the same Boston Market reminded me of the incident.
I mentioned it to a friend, who said, “For some people, being hit by a car in a parking lot would be the closest that they had ever come to death. For you, it’s almost forgettable.”
I had never thought of it this way, but I guess he was right.