Or at the very least, the speakers.
Saturday morning, I went up to Denver with Gary so he could pick up his new work truck. After a particularly amazing breakfast at Snooze, I drove our truck home by myself.
Blame the pineapple upside-down pancake-induced euphoria; blame the sunshine and the aviator sunglasses; you can even blame Jay-Z (but if he asks, I never said that); all I know is I can't be held responsible for what happened next. I was just innocently trying to make my way back home when I heard the ominous snap-crackle-popping noise coming from somewhere down around my left foot. I did everything I could think of to try to make it stop (meaning I kicked the speaker five or six times as hard as I could without veering into another vehicle), but it appeared that my efforts were in vain; the damage had already been done.
For a while I tried to convince myself that maybe Gary wouldn't notice. He doesn't even have the radio on half the time...
I don't know if you've ever blown a speaker, but man is it ever hard to ignore. I tried switching over to some lite rock to see if something a little less intense would lessen the popping...it didn't. I even tried turning on some worship music to see if I could bless the popping away...and then suddenly I was struck by lightning as punishment for testing God.*
I saw a glimmer of hope as I turned off the highway - I had regained full sound! But a few seconds later as I straightened out, the glass was shattered.** It seemed that the speaker refused to work properly unless I was making a hard left. I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to convince Gary to drive only in circles without arousing suspicion, so I decided I'd better tell him what I'd done. This wouldn't be such a big deal if he hadn't warned me numerous times during the course of our relationship that if I didn't stop listening to music so loud...this very thing might happen.
I braced him for the bad news in the usual way - by asking him to remember how much he loves me. This manner of leading in has about a ninety percent success rate. (As for the other ten percent of the time...let's just say his memory doesn't always serve him as well as I would hope.) Luckily the odds were with me on this one, and being the wonderfully gracious husband that he is, he took the news well. Apparently GMC covers having a wife who thinks she's a thug under warranty.
*KIDDING. Kidding kidding kidding kidding kidding.
**Figuratively, thank God. If I managed to destroy a speaker and a window in the same trip, I might as well not go home at all.