My car got an owie in the parking lot at school. Someone was distracted and, well, wouldn’t you know it, now there’s a blemish on my vehicle.
It’s kind of a scrape, more than a scratch. It’s not exactly a ding (more of a dang), and it isn’t truly a dent. I think owie is the best word to describe it.
My car has plenty of miles on it, and quite a few years as well. Sort of like me. It still works great, though, and it’s paid for. Frankly, I like it, even if it is a bit past its prime. It’s solid. Reliable. And I feel safe in it, at least most of the time. When I don’t, though, it’s not the car’s fault. It’s the maniacs who are whizzing past me, or worse, stomping on their brakes for no apparent reason. Those people, sheesh!
So now there’s all this stuff to do to get it repaired. Thank goodness for insurance. It’s remarkable how many phone calls and emails have already gone whizzing back and forth, and it hasn’t even gotten to the shop yet.
My poor car. It’s been so good to me over the years. It’s seen me through three moves, two schools for me, four schools for my son, and several road trips to Vegas, California, and all over Arizona. It deserves to look as good as it possibly can, given its elder car status.
It may not be a classic, but it’s what I’ve got, and I want to take care of it. I can’t wait until this process wraps up, and I no longer have to see my dear car sporting its nasty owie.