Last evening, I almost got hit by a truck.
I was crossing the road near my house, on my way to pick up Nikki from a play date. A man in a black pick up truck rolled right up to the stop sign, on my right hand side, and kept on rolling. For me, the whole thing happened in slow motion. He was looking down at his lap – either admiring his penis or looking at a phone: your guess is as good as mine.
He rolled by right in front of me, only inches from me, and thanks to the warm weather and the open window, he heard me perfectly as I yelled: “HELLO???”
He looked up in the side mirror then: “Sorry Miss… Sorry Miss…” he exclaimed.
“Sorry my ass!” I yelled at him. Not eloquent, but it was the first thing that came to my mind.
He kept on rolling. I have the licence plate number. At least I think I do. I know it starts with 882. I’m not convinced about the last three digits so the whole way along the route to pick up Nikki I started practicing memorizing licence plates with just one quick look because I don’t know if I’ll ever need that information one day.
If Nikki had been with me right then, if she had been walking just slightly ahead of me as she does sometimes, exerting her little six year old independent spirit, she would have been hit. He wasn’t going fast but if he didn’t see me, all of 5 foot 7 and too many pounds, there is no way he would have seen tiny little her.
It was a near miss that shouldn’t surprise me after all the times I’ve been sitting on my porch and watched other near misses happen, almost all due to distracted driving.
So, I beg you. Put your phone down. Put it in the trunk. Put it anywhere that you aren’t going to be tempted to touch it while you are driving. Please.