I can’t imagine most people would be able to answer immediately when asked: “What was the most exciting weekend of your life?” In fact, I’m not sure many people have such a weekend, the one you’ll never forget. But seriously, shut up about that one time at whatever camp you went to in high school. Nobody cares that you drank beer from insert-piece-of-equipment-here. I’m talking about pure adrenaline-pumping, stomach-heaving, roller coaster-like madness. And for me, the weekend of Sept. 10 and 11 of last month was one that will live in both fame and infamy. That Saturday, the Michigan Wolverines pulled off one of the most nerve-wracking comebacks in the history of college football and that Sunday, I was hit by a car.

Let me explain first and foremost that it was the burrito’s fault. It’s very important for me to get that straight. I could tell you the culpability of each person involved, as there’s some degree of blame that could be levied on me, the driver and my housemate (who shall remain unnamed in disgrace). However, to remain non-accusing, it’s safest to condemn the burrito because burritos typically can’t yell back. You see, that Sunday I had very modest plans. I would watch the Steelers play the Ravens until 4 p.m., when I had an important meeting to attend. Other than that, I had cleared my schedule, so when the unnamed housemate inquired if I would go with him to grab a burrito, I fatefully obliged. I’m a sucker for burritos.

I must also disclose that from where I live, I have to cross State Street at the five-way intersection with Packard Street. As I only had about an hour until my meeting, I was in a bit of a hurry. As we approached the crosswalk running from east to west on State Street, I noticed there was five seconds left during which we could safely cross. Or so I thought, as I yelled, “C’mon, we can make it!” and bounded into the street.

The moment I got a few yards into the street, a number of things occurred simultaneously, so I’ll try to adhere to any semblance of chronology. For a fraction of a second, I heard my housemate yell the beginning of a warning, and I began to turn back (though it’s not like I really had a chance at that point). Then, just as quickly, I was in the process of being hit by a car — a white sedan, if you were wondering. Sometimes I think that sedan had been waiting for me my whole life.

People often ask me what it felt like — to which is difficult to reply anything but “it felt like a car.” I played lacrosse in high school, and the closest comparison I can muster is getting completely blindsided by an opposing player. But instead of a guy in pads who will stop (and maybe get a bro-five) after he’s laid you out, this was a ton and a half of metal and glass. If you played lacrosse against a team of robots, it probably wouldn’t have been that strange.

Another question I get is, “What were you thinking when you got hit?” as if I was wondering whether I left the oven on or if I happened to lock the front door. In truth, I only remember fragments. I felt some inherent stupidity as I rolled across the hood. But I was mostly focusing on not dying, something that requires a surprisingly large amount of concentration. Not that I’d admit it in person, but maybe I was wondering if my burrito was in jeopardy too. Don’t judge.

It was all over in a matter of seconds, but the aftermath lasted much longer. I immediately picked myself — and my flip-flops which had mysteriously flown off — up and limped to the sidewalk. Though I was miraculously unhurt, I was pretty pissed. I hadn’t broken a bone in my entire life, and my foot was swelling large enough to put that streak in danger. I was told to sit down and was examined by a passing doctor. Someone eventually called the police and an ambulance, and even a fire truck, but only because the law requires them to respond.

I got off lucky enough for the doctor to prescribe a sprained ankle that would only require crutches for a few days. Add to that my unbroken bone streak, and everything turned out alright. Actually, scratch that. The driver, who also shall remain nameless, never uttered a word of apology. Though considering I broke his windshield and his side-mirror while his car broke nothing of mine, I’m not too hung up about it.

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