Sunday, I think it was, R. and I were driving back into my neighborhood, and he was asking how my finances were. I’ve been what my mother refers to as “condo poor” all year, working pretty hard paycheck to paycheck to keep the mortgage and other associated costs of the new place, all of which (being SoCal) are really more than I can afford, under control. I told him that things were beginning to level out, as they are, and that given the usual rate of salary increases, I should be fairly comfortable in a couple of years.
That is, I said, unless something goes wrong with my car. Nothing can go wrong with my car for three years.
Monday, my car got hit in a parking lot, and the culprit drove off.
Yesterday, R. and I were out running errands, and stopped by my office building so I could pick some things up. We were inside for perhaps ten minutes. We walked back out to the car, climbed in, and buckled up. And when I turned the key: nothing. No whirring attempts at starting. No radio. No power windows or locks. Nada.
It was so beautiful that I almost started laughing: of course I got hit. Of course the car wouldn’t start. Of course.
All things considered, fate was pretty easy on me: it turned out only to be a dead-as-a-doornail battery. We got a jump, drove to my dealer, and they tested the electrical systems and replaced the battery for a mere $130. And even washed the car as a bonus.
And yesterday afternoon I got word from the Claremont PD that they have indeed tracked down the kid who hit me, and they gave me his insurance info. So I should be able to get those repairs made without damage to my insurance rates. (Oh, and when I say “kid”: did you know that people born in 1989 are driving now???)
But let this be a lesson to me: no more tempting fate by getting comfortable, much less announcing that comfort out loud. Henceforth, there will be only a guarded watchfulness.
And, today, gratitude that this is for the moment the worst of what I’m dealing with.