Was I Having a Stroke, or Just an Idiot?
Driving home from work the other night, I noticed it was darker than usual. Not “daylight saving time” darker, not “storm clouds rolling in” darker — mood lighting in a cheap steakhouse darker. Immediately, I thought: Great. My headlights are dying.
So I did the responsible thing. I pulled over. Twice. Got out of the car. Checked the lights. Both were shining like Broadway spotlights. Back behind the wheel? Still dark. At this point I’m thinking: Either my eyes are going, or the universe is playing a prank on me.
And then it hit me — the terrifying thought that crosses every middle-aged mind sooner or later: Was I having a stroke? Because nothing says “fun Tuesday night commute” like debating whether you should pull into the ER or just hope your warranty covers brain malfunctions.
Finally, I make it home, exhale, and as I toss my keys on the counter, I catch my reflection in the window. And there it is: my prescription sunglasses. I’d been driving the whole way wearing shades at night like Roy Orbison — minus the talent, the mystique, and the hit songs.
So no, it wasn’t my headlights. No, it wasn’t a stroke. It was just me… auditioning for the world’s worst tribute act.
Which raises the bigger question: if I’m already pulling over on the highway convinced I’m dying, how far away am I from Depends diapers? Probably just one bad Costco run away.
For now, though, I’ll take the win — and put my regular glasses somewhere I can actually find them.
The Valley Viewpoint 