In Which C.J. Learns She Does Not Qualify For The Job Of Going Postal

As many of you know, I hurt my right foot a week and a half ago. Sprained the tendon in the arch. Not only did this make walking and standing difficult, it made driving nearly impossible. Turns out the tendon in your arch is the one you use when you press on the accelerator.

When I mentioned to my hubby that driving was extremely painful, he suggested I drive with my left foot. Like the mailman does.

I had my doubts.

My sense of coordination is awkward at best. It took me long enough to learn how to ease onto the gas or brake with my right foot without sending anyone into the dashboard. I had little faith mastering the task with my left foot would be any easier.

The morning after my hubby's brilliant suggestion, I got into the 9-4, applied my right foot to the gas, and--as pain turned my entire foot into one searing cramp--decided maybe he was on to something after all. Twisting my body to the side so my right leg pointed toward the passenger seat and my left foot had all the room in the world to access both the gas and the brake, I eased my foot onto the gas and shot down the driveway like I was auditioning for NASCAR.

This was not a good development. Worse, however, far worse was the fact that by twisting my body to accommodate my insane hubby's suggestion that I could drive with my left foot, I'd rendered myself unable to use the rear view mirror to its full capacity. Plus, I was turned in such a way as to make regular, normal, non-hazardous steering virtually impossible.

I lifted my foot from the gas, aimed for the brake, glanced in the rear view mirror and saw...my mailbox.

In the category of Things I Don't Want To Hit With The 9-4, the mailbox ranks right above trashcans and right below the UPS truck. I wrenched the steering wheel in my own little off-center way, following insane hubby's wretched little suggestion, and careened across the lawn. Backwards.

I forgot all about easing onto the brake. There are trees on my lawn. Trees are ranked right above the UPS truck and just below cows. I did not want to hit a tree. I slammed on the brake and slid to a halt, parallel to the mailbox, perpendicular to the driveway, with one tire hanging over the curb in a clear effort to find the road again and end this nonsense.

Honestly, I don't know why none of my neighbors have to yet to install a motion-activated camera aimed at my house. They'd be rich by now. Or at least own a few insanely popular viral videos.

Deciding I was much safer driving in pain than trying to follow my hubby's ill-advised suggestion, I readjusted, put the 9-4 in gear, and drove across the lawn and onto the road with my right foot firmly in charge of my destiny.