It was a lovely spring evening as I drove home from work on busy Route 15-501, in Durham, North Carolina. My mind was filled with thoughts about the next day’s plans. I would be getting a manicure and pedicure, and having my roots touched up in preparation for a close friend’s wedding.
Traveling in the right lane at about 55 miles an hour, my adrenalin peaked as the car in front of me came to an abrupt stop. Although I was a reasonably safe distance behind, I instinctively cut the steering wheel sharply to the right, which caused my car to flip over, rock back and forth on its roof, and come to rest on the driver’s side of the car, in the shoulder of the highway.
I waited for pain to kick in, but felt nothing. My seatbelt had prevented me from having so much as a scratch.
I was lying against the driver’s door, which was on the ground, and the only exit, the passenger’s door, was above my head. I felt no concern as I turned off the ignition, evaluated the situation and waited for help.
Suddenly, I panicked as I remembered my lunch hour shopping spree. The white plastic shopping bag, with large maroon letters identifying it as Lane Bryant, a shop for women size 14 and over, lay at my feet. But, the angle of my pinned-down body made it virtually impossible to reach. Knowing it would be a matter of minutes before help came I, in an extraordinary feat of strength, contorted my body, defied gravity and miraculously managed to reach the bag with my foot, and bring it up to my hand.
I was exhausted and perspiring as I feverishly raced against time to remove the blouse, slacks, and underwear from the bag, turn it inside out so the store name could not be read, then re-pack the bag.
Mission accomplished. No one would ever know I was overweight.
Within a few seconds hordes of concerned people were climbing all over my car in an effort to determine my condition and render assistance. I looked up and smiled.
Several moments later police and firemen arrived, pried open the passenger door above me, and endeavored to hoist me up through the top of the car. As they took both of my arms and pulled, I could feel my skirt, which had caught on to something, lifting up, up, up, and I had no way to stop it. As scores of spectators watched with concern I realized that they were about to learn what, up to that moment, only my hairdresser had known for sure.
And, as the police gallantly struggled to lift me out of the car, I smiled to think how silly and unnecessary it had been for me to turn my Lane Bryant bag inside out. These valiant caretakers, whose neck muscles were bulging and biceps were about to burst, had little doubt about where I shopped.
Upon reaching the top safely, I was lowered me to the ground, where spectators applauded, and I curtsied. A concerned woman asked if I would like her to phone someone. I gave her my gentleman friend’s phone number. I had phoned him from work that afternoon, to tell him I would be over at 5:30 to cook a lovely dinner. It was now 6:15 and he would be worried.
I was beginning to feel a little shaky as I realized what a close call I had. Police were questioning bystanders. I learned that the woman in the car in front of me had come to an abrupt stop because she saw flames shooting from the rear of the car in front of her.
Within fifteen minutes my friend, Jack, showed up. He rushed towards me, and determining that I was alright, he placed his hands on his hips in feigned indignation.
“This was totally unnecessary,” he scolded. “If you changed your mind about cooking, we could have eaten out.”
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