The Danger Of Magnets

It's pretty crazy you can buy magnets so powerful that they come with a disclaimer telling you to plan out your route so metal objects don't come flying across the room at your fragile flesh suit. While I can't answer the Insane Clown Posse as to exactly how magnets work without looking it up, I can explain a theory involving magnets that I developed at 11-years-old.

Well, magnets was just a word that made sense at the time. Science has yet to approve or disprove this theory, so it could totally be plausible.

As a straight male, it's a constant struggle to keep from staring at an attractive female for more than a few seconds, and entering super creepsville. Often times, it's not even a conscious process. It just happens while you're going about your day, and only when eye contact is made do we do a horrible job of pretending nothing ever happened.

This is where the theory comes into play. Men have magnets in their eyes, and women have magnets in their breasts and bottoms. Because they are magnets, they attract one another. Again, I was 11, the mental equivalent of a chimpanzee minus the throwing of feces.

While awkwardly getting caught staring throughout my teenage years, and well into my adulthood more times than one can count on a handful of hands, it was at 17 that I learned firsthand the danger of these magnets.

I had this girlfriend who lived just a town over, and we'd get to see each other at least a few times a week at her church. My mom would go too, and I still had my learner's permit at the time so she'd let me drive to and from.

It was any ordinary night when it was time to leave. We'd hug and sometimes kiss if nobody was looking, say we'd call each other, and go on our way. As I start the car with my mom in the front passenger seat, the girlfriend waves and turns to walk away in her tight jeans. As I'm backing out of the church parking lot, it happens....the magnets lock on.

Before I could say "Oh lawd Jesus," the rear end of the car hits a telephone pole completely shattering the back window. In a wave of terror, I start apologizing profusely to my mom who yells at me to turn off the damn car. Thankfully, the bumper doesn't even have a stratch, but there's still the whole back windshield of the van that's disintegrated into a billion pieces.

My girlfriend quickly walks over asking if we're okay, and my mom asks if she could get us a broom and dustpan to sweep up the shattered result of stupidity (my internal words). As she goes to fetch, people begin walking out of the church and, naturally, head over to the van curious what happened.

Next thing I know, I'm 100 feet from the scene of the accident, walking in the opposite direction. The massive embarassment caused my conscious brain to shut down, and my legs noped it the hell out of there. I knew it was the wrong thing to do, but perhaps more embarassing was the thought of walking back to the thing I wanted to burn permanently from my brain.

After about half a mile of walking, my mom drives past and pulls over. The only words I could utter was "sorry," and that was the beginning of what felt like an eternity of silence. I never could scrape together the money to replace the back windshield, but then again, the van didn't run much longer before the engine was shot.

My girlfriend and I later laughed about the whole situation, but we only lasted a few more months after that. The one thing that has lasted are the magnets, and they continue to get me in trouble.

Photo credit: AMC


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