Inferiority Complex

I weeble and wobble on Don's arm into the dealership clutching the things that I can think to retrieve from my car.

My EZ Pass, my parking garage chip, my iPhone charger. I grab my insurance card and my thingamadoo that lets me listen to my iPhone while driving and my Bluetooth (earwig) and my prized college reunion CD.  I leave the beach chair. If someone at the dealership wants to steal it, karma will give them a wicked sunburn.

I call the number on the insurance card.  A lovely man answers. I am sure he thinks I am a complete kook when I explain what I have just seen.

Not at all.

He is as calm as a priest.  Tells me it happens all the time.

What??? Why have none of the vast collection of friends and acquaintances I have ever had such a preposterous experience.

I file the claim.  No blips or bumps or speed traps. I am waiting for them to nail me at the end once the 3000 dollar bill has been amassed.

I turn to Don as I hang up. "What do I drive home?  What do I drive for the next few weeks???"  They have exactly one car on the lot. The bo-ring gray Corolla. The Enterprise Rental down the block closed conveniently a half hour ago.  No chance I can go and get a more stylish car there. A Hummer perhaps. Or something, anything that doesn't scream, "I am a low budget soccer Mom. Pity me. Can I please merge?"

I sign the multitude of papers and get into the car. The girl at the counter comes out to fill out all the inspection papers. What is scratched and what is dented and what the mileage is. She seems to pity me. Somehow I know we relate. She is a beautiful, stylish girl who gets completely made up and puts on a fabulous outfit and great jewelry to work in a dealership that smells like tire rubber and those little pine tree shaped air fresheners people buy to hang by their dashboards so their cars don't smell like gym socks and fast food. We are both boiling over with the need to never come back here ever again.

I decide to make her life easier. I gush about how much I love the car and how much I appreciate her help and then peel out as quickly as the 4-cylinder engine and automatic transmission will allow me to.

I want to die. I have motor envy.