I can still remember the Bush song playing on my radio and my battery gauge began floating violently as my headlights dimmed against the dark road.

The car of question was a 1996 Camaro Rally Sport that had only brought me turmoil the entire time I had owned it. So there I was 16-years old on the road at night with no phone and just my Mom in her pajamas. Of course we hadn't intended to take a little jaunt road trip. Originally we had just planned to get gas and then drive five minutes North to the McDonald's to get a sweet tea...half-cut.

Instead, we found ourselves on the side of the road with a car that was in a fit of rage and was slowly dying by the second. We managed to cut through a neighborhood in hopes of making it to my Grandpa's house. As we entered his subdivision the reality kicked in. My car wasn't going to make it.

"We're gonna have to push the rest of the way." My Mom spoke up.

And me, 16-years old, stuck my foot out the car door like Fred Flintstone. On a November night I realized I was going to have to actually push this car. Can you imagine how my Mother and I looked pushing a sports car through a neighborhood? Two bohemian women, me in a fringed leather jacket and a lace top. My Mom in pajamas and an Annie Lennox haircut.

Life is very unexpected. Sometimes in a way that is almost magical. Prior to the moment of my car losing control, my day had been normal. But a sudden turn of events and I can still recall that November night now six years later. Some days we feel like we are stuck in a rut, going through the motions. Other days we feel as if we are actually in our very own sitcom. And both of those are 100% completely, utterly normal.

Years later I would eventually sell that demon of a Camaro and upgrade to a more mature, reliable car. But sometimes I drive down that road at night and I can almost see myself, thinking I was so invincible trying to push that car. The fearlessness, the independence it took. And the anger I felt as I watched the tow truck try to tow my beauty away from me. Often, I forget what it was like to think that I was "fearless." How easy it is to forget those days of being so independent that I didn't even need a man.

In my younger days, dealing with the car's mood was almost a hobby. Now I find myself dealing with larger things on the scale. Sometimes I look back at those simpler times and I think 16-year old me calls out to me in a melodramatic way. What would 16-year old me think off 22-year old me? Would she think I'm a sell out for getting a big girl job? Would she roast me because I drive a Ford? Or maybe she would look at me with Slavic eyes and see me as an inspiration?

I'd like to think that I am the girl that I should have been, caught up in the most unexpected time of her life, and taking matters into her own hands. Like the girl that pushed her car through a neighborhood all by herself.