October 24, 2012

A not so funny thing happened last week on the day that I was to drive my beloved and our daughter to the airport, so they could begin their vacation.

There was a meeting on a country road between my pretty red 2005 Buick Allure and a deer.

Now, this was a sudden and unavoidable collision. No one was hurt—well, no humans were hurt. The air bags didn’t even deploy inside the car.

The deer, unfortunately, wasn’t as lucky.

There were no clunks, grinds, or any other noises as the car traveled from the site of the impact to home. It was not yet full dawn, but there was enough light to see the results of this meeting. The vehicle was a mess, and I posted a picture of it on Face Book.

This didn’t really interfere with our plans for the day. I was still able to take Mr Ashbury and Jenny to the airport; we used her car, and I would have her vehicle at my disposal for week they were gone.

I figured, that most likely, by the time I contacted my insurance company and took care of all the paperwork and reporting, the car would be repaired and back, if not in time for me to drive to the airport again, then certainly by the next Monday.

Well, that didn’t turn out to be the case at all.

The damage to my car (that I’d had for not quite two full years) was sufficient for the insurance company to deem it a total loss.

Here is where you learn one more embarrassing fact about me. I kind of get attached to my stuff. I used to think I was a packrat until that reality show last year that I never completely watched, but saw enough of to wipe my brow in relief. But I do get emotionally attached to my things, and I sometimes even name them.

I liked my car. It was a Buick. It was mine. It was paid for. I wasn’t ready to part with it, and I really didn’t want to consider getting another vehicle at this time.

One thing I have learned, however, is that sometimes what we would prefer in life has absolutely no relationship whatsoever to what we actually get, or have to deal with.

This was one of those times.

Mr. Ashbury was away, but that didn’t really change the situation. Years of finding our rhythm together has resulted in our behaving for the most part in very predictable ways. Yes, I was ticked about the car being written off. But how I felt about it didn’t change the reality of it. I had to deal with the matter.

We’ve both long ago realized that you can reduce the stress of unpleasant, unexpected problems by focusing on finding a solution, instead of lamenting your bad luck.

 Moments after that call from the insurance company telling me they were giving me a pittance for my car, I went on line and began the task of looking for another vehicle.

 I like Buicks. The ’92 Buick I had before this last one, when it died, had more than 390,000 miles on it—or, in Canadian, 650,000 kilometers. Yep, that’s a lot, and a marvel, and sold me forever on the Buick.

Now, I’ve been pretty fortunate the last couple of times that I had to get a car. The right one revealed itself to me fairly quickly. Actually, the last one Mr. Ashbury found, while I was away at a conference.

We don’t buy new cars. We’re just not convinced in the value of them—that’s just us, and at least we feel the same way on the matter. So I was perusing the Internet for a “pre-owned” vehicle.

And this one I found, while my beloved, unawares, was sunning on the beach. My new Buick is a 2009, and fully loaded, including leather seats, a moon roof, and a digital display of information that’s going to take me a while to master.

I haven’t named it yet—but I probably will.

Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury