Dyana Goldman

Write turns & Wrong Ones

Another Day, Another Dent

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I don’t agree with the assumption that all women are bad driver but this woman definitely is. In the past six months I have managed to treat my poor, sweet, red Jetta worse than Chris Brown treats Rhianna. First, there were the tires. Two in a row, same spot each time. I did it leaving the gym (it’s starting to become a valid excuse to avoid working out) puncturing the tires on the curb of the parking garage exit. Each time, I continued to drive on it until I actually felt something was wrong with the car. I immediately sensed that something was wrong, but I like to live by the mantra “ignorance is bliss” for as long as I can. Both times, that wasn’t very long; the sudden rattling and unsteadiness I felt as I drove on the freeway was something I knew I couldn’t ignore. Luckily, I made it to work in one piece, but the same could not be said for my tire:

Shred that up real nice.
It only got worse, my reverse-Zoolander problem – I too, am not an ambi-turner – I can’t turn right. 
If it’s not the tires, it’s above them that takes the heat, as I continually sideswipe the right side of my car, each time, progressing in impact. My first incident, I swiped the back door along a metal, bended bar, a dohicky of sorts that serves no purpose other than for me to bang into it, in front of a gas pump.  A small dent was born.
Soon after, I was making a right-hand turn out of my driveway and swiped the side of a parked Prius. I’d like to blame the car for being so quiet that it snuck up on me but I don’t think that argument holds for a parked Prius. Luckily, my baby dent only got slightly more indented. But for the Prius, its bumper now had its own dent. 
In that moment, I questioned God – mainly the question being “if he is real, am I going to hell if I don’t leave a note?” I succumbed and left my apology note with my contact information. I went along with my day and hours later when I returned home, the car was still parked there, taunting me. I took the note off. I sighed, and put it back.  Later, when the owner called me, he was so thankful that I had left a note that I had a brief period of elation where I felt great about being such a kind person. Then, I realized I had to pay for his damages, and my serotonin levels quickly dropped.
Leaving work at the Universal lot last week, I stopped at a yellow light and felt that ever-shocking jolt of being rear-ended. My back bumper and trunk got added to my vehicle damage list. I screamed, “fuck!!!”, my typical response in any of these situations, but also was flooded with relief that finally, this was not my fault! I wasn’t badly injured but I did smack my head against the side of my car and since I don’t really understand how concussions work, I always assume concussion.  The security guard asked if I wanted medical attention and I told him yes I did. The sirens blaring, the fire truck of the Universal lot came barreling down the hill and three firemen hopped out to check me out. Sadly, the firemen who work on a movie lot were not the type I enjoyed checking out.
I got a call from the insurance company of the woman who hit me, let’s call her Rhonda (just in case I do mention her again) and while I know they are covering the damage, I still don’t fully understand how. But, to throw a wrench into it all…
As I was driving home from lunch today, I had the mother-load of side-swipings occur. I was pulling into a left hand-turning lane and somehow managed to side-swipe my entire right side – from the side view mirror all the way to the back bumper, against another car. The driver, who must have been all of seventeen years old, leaned out and as I profusely apologized, he nonchalantly asked me how his car looked.  “Shockingly fine,” I told him and shockingly, I wasn’t lying. “How about mine?” He just sort of…grimaced. “Let me just pull over…” I started to say but the teenage boy, chill as a dumb kid can be, said “no big deal!” and drove off. Ah, to be young and free. I on the other hand, was left with a detached side-view mirror, a banged up body with scratches all along the side and a front passenger door that won’t open. 

 I’ve avoided it for as long as I can but finally, I have to face my mistakes. I called my insurance company and filed a claim. I felt like I lost the game – I had gone so long being a terrible driver without ever getting my insurance company involved. But, with a car more beat up than Donald Sterling would be in South Central, it’s time for repair. How to repair my anti-Zoolander issue however, will be much more difficult.

Comments

  1. Fantastic read! I can't really comment as I am your male version. Your poor car. How many accidents does your insurance company think it is?

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  2. As your Mom, and being on the receiving end of the phone calls to alert me to your newest car incident, my response has always been mixed emotions- humor not being one of them. Gratitude that you and no one else is hurt, and wanting to cry…not again! Thanks for making me laugh out loud. Although driving may not be your greatest strength, your humor and ability to laugh in the face of adversity is!

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