IS MY CAR BEING SHOT AT, OR IS THAT AN ACORN?

It's that time of year again here in New England:  Time to play "Is My Car Being Shot At, Or Is That An Acorn?"

Yes, folks, autumn in New England means multiple heart attacks while driving.  Every time the car gets pinged by something that sounds like a boulder or a cannonball, we here in the Northeast do three things:
1.  We duck down a little while driving (and tighten our sphincters);
2.  We swear like drunken sailors on a weekend bender;
3.  We wonder if the bullet breached the gas tank and how much time we have to bail before the explosion.

Generally, it's easy to figure out which is which when it comes to bullets and falling, errant acorns.  If you happen to be driving through Lawrence, it's a bullet hitting your car.  If you're driving through the back roads of the country under the protection of leafy trees, it's an acorn.  If you're driving through suburbia, it's a crapshoot and could be either one.

Falling acorns sound like missiles blowing up bunkers.  It's amazing the reverb these things get and how quickly the sound makes you look around for smashed windows or blood pouring from a necessary internal organ.  Honestly, acorns pinging automobiles are to the blood pressure what Viagra is to erections -- after an acorn hit, one's heart rate can easily stay elevated for four hours or more, and you might eventually need medical intervention.

I truly hope this morning's giant boom on the car's exterior is from an acorn.  I don't think it's a rock.  Who would be hiding in the woods along a busy route where the speed limit is 50 mph, winging rocks at vehicles in the pouring rain?  I check the windshield, which still appears to be intact.

I have already experienced noise terror once today when a huge crash of thunder wakes me from a work dream, and I spring out of bed at 3:15 a.m. unsure of exactly where the hell I am.  (Not at work, thankfully, since I don't have on a bra.)  Now, driving to work, this.  It's enough to make me consider wearing Depends so I don't randomly shit myself when I believe I'm the target of a real-life game.

Truly, I could be.  I'm right near the state forest and sitting at a red light by local walking trails.  Maybe some nut job really is shooting at cars.  My stomach, already feeling sour from the wee-hours experience, feels funky.  I'm not going to lie: I look down to see if I'm bleeding.  I could be, you know.  I may have been shot!  It sounded super loud!

Alas, no broken windows (not even a spider crack), no holes in the car, and no holes in me.

Guess since I'm near the woods that an acorn must've hit me.  Damn those things.  They're so freakin' LOUD when they hit.  Worst of all, autumn has not officially started, so I have several weeks left of being "shot" at by Mother Nature.

Oh, well.  There is always that possibility that I am being simultaneously shot at and bombarded by angry oak trees ala Dorothy Gale.  I mean, this is suburbia, after all.  Plus, I've never been exceptionally popular.  Hmmmm, maybe I'll just stay inside for the next few weeks until winter arrives in earnest.