It occurred to me how ridiculous I looked. “A circus clown finds a portal that leads to the 10 West freeway emergency lane and steps into it.” 

I’m greeted with the beautiful glimmer of gold and silver metal embedded in each and every employee’s face. No one is wearing an outfit newer than 2010 and I already feel at home. No more hidden septum rings or fugly ill-fitting employee uniforms. I cautiously asked my new boss if there was any dress code and she said this:

“If you can walk around in public without getting jumped or arrested, you can wear it”

Music to my ears.

My already overflowing closet doubled with excitement. 

“Welcome to Crossroads, how may I help you?” was my new favorite sentence.

My mom told me that she stopped dressing me when I was three because I insisted on styling myself. She would look at me and think “If she wants to dress like a clown then she can dress like a clown.” I was never told what to wear and what to buy since then.

Bright blue pants, decrepit antique blouse, and a big gaudy orange bolo tie. On each of my hands, two blue sparkly blotches from rubbing my eyes in disbelief. A white and blue trucker hat that says “Say Perhaps to Drugs” sits pathetically on my passenger seat.

“Oh my god. What the fuck was I thinking?”

About three years before this, I barely passed my behind the wheel driving test.

“Speed up, grandma!” the DMV guy said as he stepped out of my 2008 silver Toyota Corolla. 

I was playing it safe, so safe that I almost failed. 

I continued playing it safe for three years until I had to commute from Pasadena to Santa Monica every weekday during rush hour. My full-time job, combined with my 4 hours-total commute, left me plagued with boredom. There’s only so much music you can listen to when you’re crawling across the 210, 405, and 10 freeway every day. I filled the painstakingly long drive with ebay perusing and google surfing. 

Soviet-Era Faberge Egg

How old is the oldest dog alive?

How old is the oldest cat alive?

Vintage Marching Band Jacket

My busy schedule left me little time to unpack my car from the previous week’s apartment move.

With one hand on the wheel, the rest of my body, including my brain, couldn’t bear to pay attention to the road.

I take a selfie of myself in front of my cluttered backseat, the way an ecstatic Texan tourist takes a photo in front of the Eiffel Tower.

The intended recipient of said selfie never received it.

The pearly white bumper of my 2018 Toyota Corolla passionately embraces the Prius in front of me, the spectacle accompanied by a fanfare of crunching metal.

OhmygodwhatthefuckwhatthefuckwhydidIdothatshit

The hand that took the selfie is now pressing my hazards as I drift into the emergency lane in a state of shock.

I snatch off my hat and I step out of the car. My silver sneakers feel heavier than usual. I tell her that I’m so sorry, and that I’ve never been in an accident before, and that I don’t know what happened. 

The real reason would only make my outfit look even more laughable.