Yesterday, during a freak snowstorm that lasted for all of twelve hours before clearing up and melting away to dry pavement by quittin’ time, my beloved car and I managed to find ourselves on the receiving end of one rather large and hopelessly out of control Suburban.
We (”we” being myself, my assailant and our respective vehicles) managed to survive the aftermath of rearrangement in some place other than the busy intersection we managed to meet up in, the subsequent flurry of questions asked by the nice lady cop that gave me my third experience with the police that did not involve issuing me a citation, and the seemingly endless rounds of interrogation by our respective insurance companies none the worse for wear.
After we parted ways, I finally quit shaking and after right around three hundred and forty-two bite-sized Three Musketeers bars, I pondered the choices that I’d been given: I could have my insurance company start the repair work and pay my $500 deductible then have it reimbursed later by his insurance company, or wait for his insurance to belly up to the bar and take care of it. One would take effort and money, the other limitless amounts of patience, none of which I happen to have in large quantities.
However, I initially chose the option that didn’t involve putting a dent in my savings account; after all, I’m used to driving old beaters, so it shouldn’t bother me to run around with one crumpled up door-panel, right?
But, after driving home yesterday evening and back to work this morning, I realized that it does bother me, to a completely unreasonable degree. I love my car, and I hate the fact that she’s all messed up. Not to mention the fact that each time I come to a stoplight I want to jump from the car and point at the door, make eye-contact with the drivers around me and hastily explain at high volume, “It wasn’t me! This was not my fault! I was at a completely legal stop at a completely legal stoplight! I didn’t do a thing! I’m innocent, I tell you!” And now she’s just so…uglified. I want to duck my shoulders into the collar of my coat, shake my hair around to cover my face and put a brown paper bag over her head. She really deserves better, you know.
It’s stupid, I know. It’s winter, and I live in an admittedly hick area filled to the brim with old beaters and cars that have met with rather unfortunate accidents this season. Feeling this way is irrational and I shouldn’t make rash and inconvenient decisions regarding cosmetic aesthetics, but…it bothers me enough that I find myself both willing and eager to part with the $500 I was saving up for my new computer. After all, I will be reimbursed, I’ll just have to wait a little bit longer than expected.
Because I just can’t stand it.
So, this afternoon I shrugged off the embarrassment produced by my vanity, slapped on a band-aid and made the necessary phone calls to get the party started and put Kermitta on the road to recovery and – wouldn’t you know it – they’re all on holiday until next week!
Oh Vanity, how I loathe thee!
Oh…I know how you feel…unfortunately I bought a black car…and only other people who drive black cars know my pain about little dings and scratches…let alone the evil accident I was in that fubared my left quarter panel…thankfully the guy was cool about it and his insurance was ok about it after hearing that he was the one who ran the red light.