Three seconds, please

For the past week and a half, Sean’s been driving his boss’ car. It’s a little black coupe that has made going to work a little more enjoyable for my honey:

His boss, Jeff, is currently one of Sean’s favorite people in the universe. (He’s actually a great boss and was one of Sean’s favorite people in the world even before, but the car swap pushed him into the stratosphere of appreciation.) And because Sean’s so thankful for the little two-seater, he happily complied with all of Jeff’s rules. Like no eating in the car. No driving on dirt roads. No automatic car washes . And most especially, no letting your wife wreck into the back of you when she’s following you home from church in the Malibu because you wanted to drive the Corvette, which seats two, even though we are a family of five.

Yep. I came within inches of plowing into the back of the beloved Corvette. Inches. Maybe centimeters. Tires squealed, anti-lock brakes engaged and lots of rubber left on the pavement.

Sean’s face in the rear-view mirror was not a happy one. For those of you who think he’s always smiling, almost rear-end him in his boss’ $70,000 Corvette and you will see a new side of my jovial sweetie.

And I haven’t even mentioned Michael’s reaction, which can only be described as sheer terror.

Thankfully, I didn’t hit him. If I had, I’d be on a plane right now to some undisclosed location, where I’d stay until Sean gets Alzheimer’s and forgets I wrecked his boss’ Corvette.

Sean trades the ‘Vette back for his Camaro today. I am sad for him but relieved for me. And I think I need to re-visit the concept of the three second rule.

This is one sweet, fast, not-wrecked ride!