Well, the worst possible outcome of my little accident last Wednesday has come true: my insurance agent has decided to total my car. Apparently there was some sort of frame damage that would hardly have made it worth fixing.
This has brought my attention to just how attached I was to my old car. It was the car I learned to drive in. It’s the only car that I’ve driven for any real amount of time. More than I realized, that car had become, for all intents and purposes, part of the family.
I suppose that’s why it feels like I’ve had a death in the family. It is surprisingly depressing to realize that I will never drive that car again, that I will never sit in that seat, that I will never see that car in its original condition again.
Now, I’m aware of how strange it is to get torn up about losing a car. It’s true, nobody was hurt in the accident; it’s true, we’re getting a nice check from the insurance company that will probably make a good down payment on a new car, but that doesn’t really help. There was something about my old Volvo. I had a relationship with it. It was mine. There weren’t a whole lot of other Volvo station wagons on the road. Now, in all probability, I’ll be stuck with a damned generic Toyota, with no soul, and no identity. I’ll blend very well into the background. I’ll have to learn how to find it in a parking lot, something I never even had to consider before.
There are a few bright spots in all of this, though. For one, I’ll finally have a more fuel-efficient car that I don’t have to fill up so often. I’ll have a brand new car that doesn’t have all the arthritis-like age-related problems. This has also brought to light just how human our cars can seem sometimes. I actually feel like somebody I know has died, and it bothers me. After all, I’ve reacted rather stoically to every death in my family, but this actually got to me. It seems a bit strange, I know.
I suppose that confirms it, then: I’m a weirdo.