I’m convinced I’m a “Smash Magnet” and by golly, I would rather be a “Babe Magnet” or any other kind of magnet than what I’m destined to be.
When we bought the spanking new, blemish-free, silver Volvo station wagon home, I was thrilled until I heard Hubby utter those ominous words, “This is our last car, Honey. We’ll drive it until we can’t drive it anymore.” I think Hubby meant until we’re too old to drive.” I don’t think he meant when the car starts to look like a battle zone.
It really isn’t my fault that someone spitefully gouged one side of the car with their keys. Or, someone else ran their grocery cart into the Volvo’s rear end. Or that someone actually raced away when they backed into the Volvo, causing a caved-in rear corner. It’s almost as if the “Car Gods” were having a field day, chortling and jabbing each other in glee as I carefully drive away on my errands–in my repainted scrapes, carefully patched “wounds” on the Volvo. Even if I parked miles away from anyone else, the car will have new scratches and dents when I return. Honest to God—all those times were not my fault!
Two weeks ago, I made it home without a scratch until the concrete wall of the Condo’s underground parkade reached over and grabbed the Volvo. There was no one to blame except “Yours truly” and I was so angry you could fry doughnuts in my “sizzle.” How the heck did I ever do something so stupid? The poor car really looked like it came from a fierce battle and lost, with its deep scratches and a huge dent along the length of the passenger side, that’s the right side. A phone call to the insurance adjuster and a visit to the body-shop followed. It didn’t help that the body-shop guy took one look and said, “Holy crap, that’s really bad!” and with a gleam of $$$ in his eyes, started tallying up the damages.
My “Loaner” was a Toyota Corolla that had just been returned by a person who had dented, scratched and mashed the front. With a straight face, the body-shop guy told me, “We didn’t fix it yet as it’s the only car we have left as a loaner.” Huh! I knew it. My one-time meeting with a concrete wall had me permanently labeled as a “Smash Magnet.” If by any chance, someone runs into this Loaner car with their grocery cart or car keys, please note, this car already needs to be repaired and a few more bumps and scrapes won’t matter.
Meanwhile, I am beginning to become fond of this battle-weary Corolla—it reminds me of my beloved Volvo, still recovering in the car hospital. Next time–yes there may be a next time—I’m picking out a truck, one of those big, solid testosterone pickup monsters no one dares pick a fight with. . . .