The best thing I can say about this weekend is that I am in one piece. I am feeling the glow of being alive with my hubby and dog; here on the eve of the blood red moon.
We should all be happy to be alive, even when we see signs of craziness in our country (and other countries). I can’t help but express this, a few days after being a temporary hood ornament on a Jeep Wrangler.
Friday the 13th started off innocently but it didn’t stay that way. After work, I crossed on the green at 16th and Harrison in the Mission District. As I made it to almost the middle of the intersection, a car that ran a red to turn in to me was going fast in order to beat the oncoming cars. I quickly saw the large front of the car on top of me. My one reaction move was to jump high. The car hit me around the mid-section, my body forward rolling on the dash and off falling on the cement street.
All adrenaline, I slowly stood. He didn’t even roll down his window.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Are you shitting me?”
Then I interjected with major F bombs and comments about his driving, which was unusual for me. This was a weird situation. He drove away. San Francisco strangers pitched in, one person in a car across, took pictures of the license plates (now the cops have it), two other people offered to be witnesses.
I was able to walk away from it on my legs. I keep playing it in my head, the car seconds from me and the leap. Why did I think to jump? My brain accepts that their is going to be impact? I know I didn’t want to be underneath the tire. It looked like a Hollywood stunt gone bad and now I’m sure I don’t want that profession.
Anyway, It’s a couple of days later, there are no broken bones, nothing awkward about my movements. My body search has come up with nothing but one scrape behind my hand. It’s not pretty but I’ll take it.
Right now, I’m alive in San Francisco with my husband and my pit bull. Let there be blood on the moon, not on the pavement.
The Beard and the Cap 
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