“Girl,” JC says, “you’re so extra.”
“So extra what?” I gasp as I grab the oh-shit handle on the golf cart. He’s just steered us off the sidewalk and into the grass toward what looks to be a too-small opening in the very solid brick dormitory we’re hurtling towards. Who knew golf carts could go so fast?
“Don’t you know what extra means?” He doesn’t even bat an eyelash at the fact that some college co-eds just gave us the finger. Multiple fingers, actually, as we ran them off the sidewalk.
“Of course I know what ‘extra’ means. Like when I go to Chipotle and I ask for ‘extra meat’ and they put a 6th spoonful of grilled deliciousness into my burrito.” I grimace at the sudden honking from the golf cart. We’re quickly approaching a small Asian woman walking very slowly on the sidewalk. With her leather gloves, wool coat, opaque tights, and stylized hospital face mask, she looks like she should be melting in the unseasonably warm February weather.
I can’t tell if she’s sweating, though, because there isn’t a square inch of her skin showing. But I’m certainly sweating enough for her. A little because of all those layers, but mostly because of her untimely impending death by golf cart.
I say a quick prayer for her under my breath, “Dear God, please don’t let us kill this tiny Asian woman with the university golf cart. Please.”
The honking persists to the point of becoming one long, solid “meeeeeeeeep,” but JC doesn’t slow down. We’re only ten feet behind this woman. Seven feet. Thee feet. The horn is still blaring. This woman is clearly not going to move.
Suddenly we jerk to the left and I swear we’re flying as we launch off the curb. “Noo. You know… EXTRA.”
I can’t respond to JC because, well, my heart is in my throat; I may have just peed my pants a little; and now, on top of clutching the oh-shit handle, I notice I’m holding a strange handbag. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I see the tiny Asian woman teetering around, waving her hands at our backs.
“Um…” I finally get out as I toss the handbag and resume gripping the oh-shit handle with both hands. “I guess I don’t.”
JC makes a sudden, hard right turn to cut across a parking lot and then juts into a busy street, completely ignoring both the stop sign and cross traffic. I think horns honked, but we were already speeding away, and I can’t hear that much over the pounding of my blood in my ears anyway.
Maybe this 20 minute golf cart ride can count as my cardio for the day. My fitbit is telling me my heart rate is in the weight loss zone.
We careen into our own parking lot as JC explains, “You know. Extra. It’s like when someone is over-dramatic.” He slams on the brakes, flicks off the power, pockets the key, and looks at me. “Like you. On this ride. You’re just so extra.”
“Right,” I nod. I need a moment to sit and catch my breath. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon. Or rather, what I imagine I would feel like if I ever ran a marathon. Or if I ever ran more than a 5K. Really, it’s kind of how I feel when I run in general.
As I stagger off the golf cart and wobble in for my 1:45 meeting, I glare at him, “I am so not over-dramatic.”