crash.com

A couple days ago while on the way to work I was the bendee in a fender bender.

Out of nowhere, a bumper car jolt propelled me a few feet further than I otherwise would have been. Impact reverberated from head to toe.

We were on the freeway and because of the hour and sheer volume of commuters it about a mile for both of us to make our way from the next-to-farthest left lane to the emergency shoulder on the right.

I was going to be late to work, and I work at a job where I absolutely cannot be late. I was furious! and ready to give this guy all the hell my one hundred thirty five frame can produce.

Unfortunately, this "guy" turned out to be a five-foot-nothing one hundred pound cutie with the countenance of an angel.

"I'm so sorry," she said, and I could tell she meant it. She was so sorry.

My fists which had been rolled into tight ballbearings unrolled into relaxed dorsal fins at my side.

"It's okay," I assured her. "It happens."

It had never happened to me in seventeen years of driving, but I supposed she was right: It did happen. I saw it on my Google traffic updates daily.

Of course, it was more likely to happen if you were texting one of your equally cute friends (or perhaps a boyfriend??), which I assume she was given her degree of bubbly twenty-something-ness.

"So, like, what do we do?" I inquired sheepishly. "I've never been in an accident before. Do we have to call the police or anything?"

"Not unless there's an injury or major damage," and considering we were both standing close enough for a lover's embrace and the only damage to my bumper were a few barely perceptible scratches, I agreed that calling the police was unneccesary. "All we have to do is exchange information."

What followed was a microcosm of an epistolary relationship, all the pertinent salable details of our life exchanged in the span of a minute.

While she was thorough in jotting down my info, I somehow managed to exclude her driver's license and address.

Basically, I retrieved just enough information to ask her out on a date, which should be your main objective when an attractive twenty-something rear ends you on the freeway

"I'd prefer to handle this without getting our insurance involved," she said, looking up at me with her beautiful green eyes. "I already had another one of these a couple months ago and I don't want my insurance to get too jacked up."

"Absolutely," I said, transfixed. Were her eyes actually green...or were they blue?

Then she stuck out her hand out and we shook on the promise of doing this under the table, off the books.

It was only later when my employer told me that, because of the heavy roadwork nature of my job, I would have to file with my insurance and do everything official-like that I reneged on my promise via text.

Even then she was as sweet as pie, and we've continued texting regarding nit-picky insurance details--our adjusters names, claim numbers, etc.

If I had any balls (or more of a penis) I'd go all Brett Favre and send her a dick pic.

In the meantime, I have a $700 damage estimate, which seems outrageous given the minuscule nature of my Camry's boo-boos, and will start the repair process either Monday or Tuesday.

I'll have to make sure to keep her updated...