Death. By mini van?

Once, in high school, a girl I knew was hit by a car that was driven by another student’s parent. She had been crossing the street, a very busy four lane street with only a crosswalk and no traffic signal, and the car barreled up the hill and ran into her.

People in the halls that day whispered about friends of friends who had seen it all go down. Words like “cartwheeling through the air” and “anti-gravity” were used to describe what had apparently been seen.

Luckily the girl was fine, returning to class a week later using crutches, but in relatively good spirits for someone who had been catapulted through the downtown air by the parent of a peer in her homeroom.

Since then, my life has been without stories of people I know being hit by automobiles. But, the OCD/anxiety combo that comprises my internal makeup has kept me cautious.

For instance, and to the dismay of some of my friends, I never jaywalk. We could be about to miss a train in the middle of the night on a deserted street during the worst blizzard on record, EVER, and I’d be on the opposite side of the street waiting for the crosswalk signal. My friends would be screaming at me to, for the love of all that is holy and good, just run. And I’d stand there, like a self-deprecating Jewish grandma, waving them off and yelling through the howling wind “Just go. I’m ok. I’ll just catch the next one that comes along.”

They’d find me frozen the next day and my headstone would read, “Beloved daughter, friend, and compulsive abider of pedestrian laws.”

It really is like something compels me to obey crosswalk signals. Even when there are no cars. Even when there are no cars, the opposite light is red, and I should have a walk signal, but one doesn’t come on. I just wait. I obey.

So, there I was, Tuesday evening, obeying traffic signals. And it was one of those late summer evenings where you’re thinking to yourself, “It is hot as hell, but I won’t complain because the sun is friggin gorgeous and I want to have this extraordinarily beautiful sunlight in my memory forever.” And you take a picture, because you’ll never really remember.

See? Lens flare. That means it’s really bright.

As is usually the case, hunger has motivated me to get bipedal and venture into the city for food. I stop at a traffic signal and, like everyone else does, and even though it never makes the light change come any faster, I proceed to push the crosswalk button like I’m communicating internationally something urgent in morse code.

Then I stop and put my hands in my pockets because I realize, to the passerby, that I look like an idiot.

Then it happens. The crosswalk guy, who, let’s be honest, looks like the chalk outline of a murder victim, illuminates. And the irritating, sonar-like beeps start to repeat. I can safely, legally cross the road.

So I start to. And then I hear something. You know that sound that tires make when someone racing just puts the pedal to the metal at the start line, and the tires squeal as they spin in place? I hear that. And as I take a step further into the crosswalk I look over my shoulder to see what the hell is going on, only to spot the bumper of a mini van not three feet from my leg, coming like a bat out of hell around the corner.

And this is the best part (well, the best part outside of the part that it’s a mini van that comes less than three feet from annihilating me): the driver lays on the horn.

That’s right. I’m in the middle of a crosswalk being beckoned by a chalk-murder-outline guy and sonar pings to safely cross the road, and the Dale Earnhart Jr. of mini vans is laying down an extended honk at me. The girl who, in the brightness of incredible sunshine, with the blessing of the beeping lighted signal, and in the most reflective shirt EVER, is in the middle of crossing the street.

That is but one of the many blinding reflections my shirt was airing out in that sunlight. There is no way it was an accident. I was, without a doubt, visible.

You’ve got a mini van hurtling toward you and you are not made of steel. What do you do, Lindsey? What do you do?

Well, I did what can only be described as the worst excuse for what those in the ballet profession call a grand jete that has ever been seen. But that weak ass grand jete got me out of the way, and for that I am thankful.

I’m still baffled by the fact that this was all at the hands of a mini van. A. Mini. Van. 1) They are not made for racing. 2) Isn’t it a parental vehicle used to shuttle children, and therefore shouldn’t the driver have been driving with more consideration to safety?

I guess the lesson is this: when you drive, be considerate. When you walk, never assume you’re safe. And when you drive a mini van like it’s a freaking Maserati and you almost hit a blonde girl with a really sparkly shirt, know that she remembers what your car looks like, and she will find you. If it’s the last thing she does.