I can handle it. (Get it? Handle? HAR HAR.)

This afternoon I breathed a sigh of relief as I stood in the Honda parking lot and opened my car door with a simple pull of the handle. You see, Friday night Josh pissed himself off royally by yanking too hard on my driver-side door handle and breaking it to the point that the only way to open the door was from the inside.

I like to think of it as karma’s way of saying “ha, ha!” after all the times he has warned me that I am “too rough” on things like door handles and cell phones and dishwashers (though coincidentally, all of those things have broken recently. Suspicious.)

He was way angrier about that broken handle than I was, even though I am the one who’s been having to contort my body in various ways just to get inside my car. I say it was worth the sacrifice to be able to say to him, “You know, maybe this wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t so rough on things,” and watch his head nearly explode.

The lack of a working door handle has presented some challenges (mainly trying not to moon my neighbors as I streeeetch across the console,) but hey, I’m a resourceful girl, and I’m no stranger to improvising when it comes to a less than perfect car. Heck, I spent the better part of my senior year listening to “Hit ‘Em Up Style” via a shower radio draped across the passenger headrest after my Volvo wagon’s tape deck stopped working.