I think I've described an anxiety attack before.  If so, I apologize.  But, yeah, we'll get there.  (tl;dr?  car accident)

After giving Archie his beet pulp, checking to make sure the farrier didn't magically reattach the shoe, spraying him with our magical fly spray, and taking goofie selfies while giving him kisses, I left the barn to head to the gym.  D and I had worked out on Monday, since I couldn't ride, so I was already sore but had a ton of different muscle groups upon which I could inflict damage.

Goofie kisses.

Let's add a little imagery to this story.

Me, driving in my POS 1997 Subaru Legacy Outback... that I love a ridiculous amount for a car that wants to die.  I've stripped off the shirt I wore to work and am just cruising along in an almost inappropriate gray tank top and black skirt.  I normally wear the tank under clothes or to run, because it looks okay with a boob-minimizing sports bra.

I'm not a super amazing driver, but I'm a hell of a lot more aware since my car was totaled on April 25, 2006 (read: how I met my horse).  I stop at a red light behind a line of traffic.  I check my rearview mirror because I like to know how close cars are to my butt.  I see the dude pull up behind me in a little white car.  And then I see him start to panic and jerk his steering wheel to the right, all the way to the curb.  And then I see him get slammed into by a gray minivan, which causes him to slam into me.  Because I saw it coming, I braced.

I hear the guy in the middle start yelling something to the effect of, "Get off your damn cell phone," while he's walking to my car.

I don't know exactly how to describe the onset of an anxiety attack.  It's like a bomb with a timer, only you have no idea how long the timer is set for.  Sometimes I have several seconds of painful clarity and sometimes I have one.  I had about two seconds before my body took over my brain and I tried to tell the guy that I was going to have an anxiety attack, that it was okay, but he was on the phone with 911 and didn't hear me.

I was able to call D and give him a rough idea of what was going on, bless his fucking heart for understanding my gibberish: ...pant.... car accident ...pant.... Montgomery ...pant.... not bad ...pant.... not bad ...pant....  He told me he was coming and we hung up, then I had to explain to the smooshed dude what was going on with me, you know, in the same fashion.  Hyperventilating blows.  (ha ha)

Pretty quickly, three squad cars and an ambulance showed up.  The EMTs verified that I was relatively okay and made me take my Xanax, so then it was a matter of waiting for my body to stop lock down.  Everyone kept telling me to sit down but I didn't want to sit down because I'd had that skirt for a really long time and I really like it.  So I was pacing, panting, with individual appendage twitching and my left hand tapping.  At some point, though, the attack ebbed and I had the presence of mind to put some damn clothes on.

They had us move our cars into a parking lot and I got to see the extent of the damage to the middle car.  His entire back bumper came off and his front was still on, but marred on the corner where he hit me.

Somewhere around this time, D showed up and nagged me about not having my insurance paperwork right there and then I bitched back at him.  I get that it's important, but I also couldn't feel my legs and sorta didn't give a shit.  Yay, Xanax!  The kid driving the minivan, who had been on his cell phone and subsequently caused the accident, came up to me.  His words, verbatim, "Ma'am, I just want to tell you how sorry I am.  I go to church.  I'm not a bad person."  Instead of going apeshit, because, dude, brakes? or because entry into a building does not make a person good (I really had to stifle the angry atheist in me), I told him that I appreciated his apology.

Ten minutes later he asks if I have a grocery bag or anything in my car.  I say that I don't, and D and I give each other weird looks and wonder what a random time to clean his car.  D and I take a moment to assess the damage to my car, which isn't that bad.  Granted, the Subie was actually in mint exterior condition, minus a few tiny rust spots.  And now she's not.  The right side of the bumper detached from the clips holding it and there's a big fugly spot.

I think I can scrub the white paint from the other car off and make this dinger less noticeable.

So then the cop comes over to give me back my stuff and to give me the contact information for the apologetic church-goer.  At which point I learn that this stupid punk has no insurance.  And knew that he had screwed me and the smooshed guy when he made his apology, but didn't have the guts to fess up at that time.  I had angry thoughts.

I saw the cop tell the smooshed guy and I saw him go ballistic.  I talked to him a little before we left and, fortunately, he's got collision insurance on his car, but he's still out the deductible.

And then we went to the gym and I worked out and realized that the back of my head hurt and my abs felt like they'd been ripped to shreds.

I needed some spotting for the 75#.  Le sigh.

After all this, I really wish I had gotten the smooshed guy's information.  I'd like to send him a thank-you card.  If he hadn't cut his wheels into the curb, I would have sustained much more damage.  I don't have collision insurance and I'm not quite ready to buy another car yet.  So, yeah, gonna do some stalking.  (When I was in my car accident almost exactly seven years ago, I had the presence of mind to turn my car sharply to the left.  So, instead of t-boning and possibly killing the lady who pulled out in front of me, we collided front bumpers.  Hard.  She never showed any appreciation for my quick-thinking and never asked if I was okay.  I mean, giant skid marks across three lanes of traffic.  But she did ask if she could take her fried chicken on the ambulance.  I don't want to be that lady.)

A) I have a lot of crap in my car.  B) You can see how far to the right the smooshed dude pulled his car.