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:
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.