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For a brand new driver, it was a minor trauma, at
least.
Emma was miles away from home on one of her first
solo adventures with the family sedan. She had driven carefully,
parked cautiously and locked the car doors dutifully – just as her
parents had instructed her to do. As she walked away from the car she
savored the delicious feeling of independence that only a driver’s
license and a fully fueled vehicle can provide.
But now, as she returned to the car, she
experienced the dark side of motorized freedom. For some reason, the
car door wouldn’t unlock. She pressed the button on her key ring
remote control again. No unlocking sound. No little red light flashing
on the control. She pressed it harder, as if sheer force would be
enough to overcome whatever mechanical problems were going on with the
car (I know, that’s a little like talking louder and slower in order
to be better understood by someone who doesn’t speak English – it
makes you feel like you are doing something, when in reality you’re
not achieving anything but heightened frustration).
Still nothing. No mechanical “click-click” sound.
No red light.
She tried to keep her composure, but she had no
idea what to do. She’d never had any kind of mechanical failure in all
her . . . well . . . hours of driving experience, so there was no
personal precedent from which she could draw. So she called her
mother.
“Mom,” she said, “I’ve got a little problem
here.”
Her mother, who was already nervous about sending
Emma out alone, skipped right over “minor trauma” and went right
straight to full on, Big T “Trauma.”
“Emma, are you OK?” she asked anxiously. “Is
anyone hurt? Is the car OK?”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Emma replied. “I didn’t have an
accident. The car is just . . . broken.”
“Broken?” her mother asked. “Won’t it start?”
“I don’t know,” Emma said. “I can’t get in to
start it.” Emma explained her predicament. Her mother was relieved .
. . and stumped.
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” she said.
“Maybe the battery has gone out on the door opener. I guess we could
bring the spare keys out to you. Let me ask your Dad.”
Emma’s Mom called her husband, explained the situation and asked if he
had any suggestions of what Emma could do. The father hesitated, then
asked: “You’re joking, right?”
“No,” his wife said. “She’s really stuck out there, and she’s getting
cold standing outside. Should I take the spare key to her?”
To his everlasting credit, Emma’s father considered his next words
carefully. But you have to know that his gut instinct was to laugh out
loud. This was a real-life situation just crying out for a punch line,
and he had the perfect opportunity to make his wife and his daughter –
his BLOND wife and BLOND daughter, no less – feel pretty . . . well .
. . you know . . . blond. This joke could be told and re-told, much to
the everlasting embarrassment of . . . well, two of the people he
loved most in all the world.
And it was that last thought that prompted him to suppress the laugh
and to gently suggest that perhaps his wife should instruct Emma to
use the actual key to open the car door.
“Oh . . . DUH! . . . of course!” his wife said, embarrassed and
relieved all at once. “Sorry about that, Hon. I should have thought of
that!”
“No problem,” her husband said.
Which, come to think of it, is exactly right. It COULD have been a
problem, if the husband had taken advantage of the opportunity to
tease and belittle and humilitate his wife and daughter. But instead
he chose to be kind, compassionate and loving – hence, “no problem.”
And precious little trauma, either. |
