Bad karma. More than just an ecoconscious clothing brand, a horrendously bad movie, and a little-known rock band, the Westernized Wikipedia version of the Indian concept dictates that “the effects of all deeds actively create past, present and future experiences, thus making one responsible for one’s own life, and the pain and joy it brings to them and others.”
Several months ago, amidst GREs, applications, final Master’s coursework, and a whirlwind LA-grad school visit, the painful consequences of my emotional turmoil brought themselves to bear on a single, fundamental extension of my self. In less than five weeks, my favorite little Honda Civic Hybrid suffered two flat tires, one cracked windshield, one parking ticket, and one speeding ticket - all first-time experiences in nearly a decade on the road.
I had two hypotheses about my bad car karma. The first - that old age had caught up with me and turned me in to one of those nearly-blind, barely-with-it old women alternately creeping and flying along the road - seemed a bit melodramatic. Sure, I need nine hours of sleep, preferably beginning at 10:30pm, and yes, I like to end my nights with a cup of peppermint tea, but I haven’t even hit thirty/the new twenty yet. The second rationale - that I was far too distracted, overwhelmed, and caught up in my own head to be walking down the road, let alone driving on it - was much more plausible.
Several hundred dollars and one course of online traffic school later, I am a more focused driver. I avoid driving behind trucks and SUVs at all costs, steer clear of road construction and any other possible flat-tire-inducing objects, and only rarely let my odometer creep towards 80. But two nights ago, on the phone with my mother and holding a cup of frozen yogurt, I made a left turn at an orange light. (In all fairness to me, the light was weight-sensitive and, as the lone waiting car decided to go straight instead, went from green to yellow to red more quickly than I’ve ever seen a light change).
When the cop pulled me over a few minutes later, I didn’t even know why. I’d like to believe it’s because I was in the right - but I think it’s more likely that I was just that distracted. I no longer have the excuses of last November; now, I have to cite separation anxiety, fears about grad school #2, and NorCal snobbery. But if I learned anything from my karma-caused traffic school, it’s that, in keeping with the above-quoted definition, personal responsibility plays a significant role on the road (of life). Hands at ten and two, eyes straight ahead, and no more cell phone conversations. Here’s hoping it’ll be enough to break the cycle.