STRANGER THAN FICTION: NECK BRACES, CRUMPLED HOODS, INSURANCE, OH MY!

If only The Other Half loved me as much as his car.

Something is wrong with me.

Sure, there are the obvious things. I'm 26 and still buy anti-acne creams. My thighs look like the inside of orange peels. I can't do simple multiplication in my head.

But there's something else. Something not so noticeable but much more damaging.

I've been cursed.

There were the injuries of my youth -- that sprained ankle playing basketball, that hideous gash from my parents' rusted metal picnic table -- but they're all healed and only scars remain.

Now THE CURSE has moved on to my vehicles. My completely paid-off Corolla was totalled by a drunk driver in December 1994. Now, not even two years later, The Other Half's brand new car has fallen victim to another idiot.

I'm blaming Mr. Half for the whole thing. I was willing to take my car to St. Louis on Friday, but Mr. Half insisted I drive his. His has a few more amenities, including more than one working speaker, a dome light that comes on every time the door is opened and an all-important cellular phone.

His car also features cloth seats. Mine are black vinyl and progressively burn layers of skin off my butt all summer long.

Mr. Half is married to me, but he lusts after his car. It's always gleaming on the outside, vacuumed on the inside. Anyone who brings food inside it gets a dirty look. Heaven forbid a gum wrapper hits the floor!

So you can imagine the pain he's going through now.

It was about 3 p.m. Friday afternoon in St. Louis traffic. A highway construction crewwoman suddenly stepped out and threw up a stop sign.

The truck in front of me stopped. I stopped. Just as I was sitting there congratulating myself on my fine defensive driving, I looked in the rearview mirror to see a Generation X-er barreling down the hill.

I let out a blood-curdling scream as Mr. Gen-X slammed into my backside. (Later, a friend recommended using the horn instead of the vocal cords to avert vehicular disaster.)

We stepped out of our cars for that uncomfortable "oh, damn" moment. "*&%#," Mr. Gen-X said, lighting a Marlboro. "Is everyone OK? I sure gotcha!"

A St. Louis County policeman arrived soon afterward. He was the last sane person I've dealt with in relation to this accident.

Mr. Half was less than supportive on the phone, although he gets extra "husband points" for asking about my welfare before he asked about the car. But when we finally came to the subject of crumpled hoods and smashed grills, Mr. Half fell strangely silent. He asked if a friend who was also in St. Louis could bring me home on her way back.

It hurt at first to know Mr. Half wasn't rushing to my side, but later I determined it was for the best. I could see our conversation now ...

ME: Oh, Sweetie, I'm so glad you're here!

MR. HALF: Are you OK? Is everything going to be all right?

ME: Well, my neck hurts, but --

MR. HALF: Not you! I was talking to the car! And would you quit bleeding? Have you ever tried getting red blood out of gray upholstery!

After a few days of walking like Frankenstein's monster, things are getting a little better. The most irritating side effect is the sound my neck makes when I stretch. It's the same sound you hear when you crinkle aluminum foil, only higher pitched.

So now I'm dealing with the insurance companies. After a day of playing "follow the bouncing adjuster," I've got a rental car. I'll be driving a dark teal Neon for the next few days.

If you pass me, honk and wave. If you're behind me, for God's sake, HIT THE BRAKES!

Heidi Neiland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.