Keep Away

I still haven't gotten my car door fixed from the infamous Booberella (love it, Rosalie) accident of over a week ago. Boobs's insurance company hasn't been able to get in touch with her-- funny, huh?-- and, although she has been determined to be at fault, and although my insurance company issued me a check for $780.92, there's still that pesky $1,000 deductible that her insurance company might cover.

Might.

So, I'm doing the whole wait-n-see thing right now. And, while I'm waiting, what I'm seeing is a car with a smashed up rear door that greatly displeases me. Looking at my car used to bring me even just a small surge of joy. Sure, there is still that pang of undeserving guilt that I feel when I tell people I drive a Volvo. Yeah, I'm still ashamed of it. Hey-- it's a process, people. But, there is actually a part of me that really likes the car. I like to look at it, because, for a nine-year-old car: it looks pretty impressive. At least, to me it does. Not even a penny-sized spot of rust anywhere, shimmering, beautiful paint, a can-do exterior and an upscale interior.

Now, though, when I look at the car, at least on the side that dumb bitchface hit, I don't feel proud anymore. I feel annoyed, angry, dejected, impotent, and maybe even a little vengeful.

I also, all of a sudden, feel like like that guy.

You know who I'm talking about. That guy.

All of a sudden, through no fault of my own, I am that guy. That guy who drives around with a fucked up, smashed in, beat up car. And, like it or not, that says something-- principally to other motorists on the road around me. What it says is:

Whoa.

Damn!

Stay away.

This guy's trouble.

He's already fucked up once.

He's likely to do it again, and you might be the one involved this time.

I feel like the automotive equivalent of a leper. No one wants to shake hands with me anymore, because they might inadvertently pull my arm off. And nobody wants to meet someone for the first time and Venus D'Milo them.

When you drive around in your car the next time you've got to buy three-cheese loaf at Panera or pick up some long, black caulk at Home Depot, take a look at the cars zipping by in the lanes around you. Try to be as attuned as you can to your reaction to these cars. Do you get a little leery when you see a dented, dinged, and damaged car get near yours?

Of course you do. You can't help it. You're human. It's okay. But, it hurts.

See, some of us who drive around in fucked up hoopty Hupmobiles do so because we have been victimized-- we are not necessarily the careless drivers. And yet, we are judged by an unknowing populous as if we are the ones to blame. After all, we've got the battle scars to suggest that we are the ones to watch out for-- we have seen brawls and brouhahas before.

We are not to be trusted near your fenders and your bumpers.

But, oh, you judge too harshly! You know us not! We are innocent!

Well, some of us are. If, however, you see an ample-bosomed, black-haired chick with no bra driving a severely bashed-in white Toyota Corolla, you can go ahead and judge her. Hate judge her. Bent over the couch.

Nice.