I don’t get migraines very often anymore, now that my ovaries are the size of Tic Tacs.  But sometimes, a confluence of circumstances—my husband, heat, bright light, my husband, stress, lack of sleep, my husband—will bring on the spots before my eyes that signal an impending migraine.  Yesterday, it was all of those circumstances, but I think the tipping point was trying on plus size bathing suits on my plusser size body at Dillard’s in unforgiving fluorescent lighting. Let’s just say, that dressing room made my thighs look fat.

If I catch a migraine early, I can sometimes head it off.  Yesterday I took two Excedrin Migraine, splashed cold water on my face and neck, donned my sunglasses, and went to the purse department, which doesn’t have dressing rooms, mirrors, or judgy saleswomen who call over the half door, “Don’t be hard on yourself.”  (I guess she heard me weeping.)

The headache wasn’t getting worse, but it wasn’t getting better, either.  I felt far from the toss-your-cookies climax, so I decided to run one last errand:  get my seven-month old, electric blue Toyota Camry washed.

But the headache, oh the headache!  I ran into the BP station, paid for my car wash, and bought a Diet Coke, my preferred caffeine delivery system.  I rolled the icy bottle on the back of my neck as I walked to my car.  I blasted the AC, closed my eyes, and sipped the medicinal beverage.  But, still, my eyes were bulging from the pulsing demon raging in my head.

I was very tempted to just go home at this point, but I had paid $10 for the super duper sudsy special, and my car was splattered with mud and lots of white splats that weren’t mud, so I pulled the car up to the whatchamacallit where you key in the carwash code on a touchpad.

I had to open my window, which was tricky for me.  You see, I love as much of nature as I can see through closed car windows, so I had rarely opened my new car’s windows in the seven months I owned this car.  I looked for the cranky thing like I had in my old car, but found instead a panel of levers and buttons.  I randomly pushed and pulled until, finally, my driver’s side window opened.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: She’s going to forget to close her window.  Well, that would just be stupid. No, I made sure to pull the correct lever for the driver’s side window and waited until it was up and hermetically sealed before heeding the green “Go” light.

I slowly drove in and waited for that George Jetson moment when everything revs up.  As soon as the first splat of rainbow-colored soap slapped my windshield, I tilted my aching noggin back on the headrest and closed my eyes.

Mere seconds later, I felt a cooling sensation on my neck, as if Tinkerbell had just sprinkled a little fairy dust back there. I sighed, and I am sure the security camera caught me smiling a bit.

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Now, dear readers, imagine it’s Lucille Ball’s head, not mine, tilted back on that headrest. Then visualize her eyes flying wide open, false eyelashes flared, because what happened next was sort of like the famous I Love Lucy candy wrapping episode, except this time, instead of the relentless conveyor belt, there are big orange spongy mop tongues whirling around, reaching out to lick her through the other three windows “she” had accidentally opened while scrambling to find the right lever for the driver’s side.

The car wash was just warming up when it sprinkled refreshing drops on the back of “her” head, but now the soap spitting mechanism is hurling luggies into the car, landing on her sunglasses, pointy bosom, and white pedal pushers.

Can you hear Lucy screech as she randomly pushes and pulls at the controls? Do you hear the audience laugh because she only manages to move the rear view mirrors, not the windows?  Do you hear the audience gasp when she pushes the button that locks the windows?  Do you see how confused Lucy is that, no matter which levers she pulls and pushes, all three windows are still invitingly open?  Do you see her sputter as the last of the soap is dispensed in her wide-open mouth?  Do you see her relief as she deactivates the childproof lock which allows her to finally, finally close the windows, albeit too late?  *********************************************************************************

Now imagine me back in the driver’s seat, rolling slowly out as the fan dries what little moisture is left on the exterior of the vehicle.

I did not wail like Lucy would have when I pulled out of the car wash.  I sat for a minute, taking stock of the damage. I was seeing spots before my eyes again, as I always do when I have a migraine.

But here’s the thing:  I didn’t have a headache anymore.

The spots I was seeing were not migraine-related at all.  They were blue soap spots dotting the wet interior of my car.

When I got home, I had some splainin’ to do!