I stuck the key into the lock, attempted to turn it, and…nothing. Perhaps I turned it the wrong way… Nope. Put the key in the lock incorrectly?…No. Then it hit me. It was winter in Minnesota and the locks on our family’s 1996 Explorer refused to cooperate in the cold.

I needed to run to the grocery store, and, for some reason, it was vital that I get there. I ran out to the car, threw the key in the door, and spent three fruitless minutes attempting to unlock the car suspecting Ashton Kutcher and the Punk’d crew would jump out at any moment.

Then I remembered: the passenger door never locks automatically, so that was probably open. The clouds started to clear. Could I finally stop standing in an empty street in the dark of night, subconsciously fearing for my life? Nope. The passenger door was also locked.

If this were a movie, this would be where I, the hero of this tale, fell to my knees and let out a cry of anguish with rain streaming down around me. Then the hero would get up with no pain, no dignity, nothing to lose, just a job that needed to be done. However, this was not a movie, and this car had become my one road block, the one thing keeping me standing out in this miserable Minnesota winter, and I was left hoping to one day regain partial feeling in my extremities.

I tried the lock on the passenger door, then back to the driver’s door—still nothing. Then I realized there was one lock that had evaded my furies, one that had gone untested: the trunk. Had I truly stooped so low? Yes. I had never tried to open the trunk before, but how difficult could it really be?

The key turned on the first try. I thought my troubles were over. I pulled on the handle. Nothing. More furious struggling. Nothing. Finally turned the handle and the back window popped open. Seriously? All of this turmoil only to run into more humiliation!? I was beyond shame. Windshields could not deter me. I struggled, but made it through the window only to have all my neighbors thinking I had committed grand theft auto.

I landed in mountains of Caribou cups, and Maddy’s dirty laundry. The battle was over. The hero had emerged, finally triumphant, with buildings exploding behind her, task accomplished. Well, not exactly…but close enough.

Some days later, I was in a nearly similar situation, the only difference being I had my brother, a little 7th grader I could manipulate according to my will. I unlocked the trunk for him, glad that someone else could be a target of the car’s unrelenting wrath. Nope. Through some twisted trick the whole trunk opened, not just the window, and he slunk in with ease. Oh cruel world! My heart freezes like the lock on the car, embittered like the infernal winter that has embarrassed me so.