I was never good at the limbo. I only ever tried it, once, at the Castle Roller Rink in 1988. (Pause while Lancaster crowd shudders, smiles, slaps their foreheads or does a combination of all three. Check out their website- WJTL Night!) I was first in line, and I fell on the first pass, when the bar was at the absolute highest. It was not a comfortable moment.
My dad came up here on Monday and absolutely kicked ass in negotiations with a car salesman (a former SU linebacker) in the Bronx. He is my hero. My awesome mom sent up a care package to end all care packages, complete with amazing homemade sugar cookies that my grandmother hasn't had time to make since her husband first exhibited signs of Alzheimer's nine years ago when he mowed the lawn for 18 hours straight. (My uncle stopped him when he realized he was refilling the gas tank for the second time, and the grass was like a putting green).
Right now I'm in limbo. Until I officially take possession of the new car and stop twitching at every intersection, until I can drive it for a few months without anything bad happening, I'm just a third-grader in acid-wash jeans with a pink and white feather clip in her hair, squatting shakily on rented wheels.