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.
