I didn’t think my life could get any more glamorous until I found out that my new role at Conagra came with a set of wheels (that’s cool guy talk for a car). Did I really need a car? Probably not, but I’m a “yes person,” so on May 5th, 2017, I became the proud owner of a 2015 Ford Fusion and, subsequently, the most eligible female on the 1500 block of Western Avenue.
When commoners buy a new car they go to a dealership, test drive a few, listen to a sales pitch about why the car they like is perfect for them, and finally, drive off the lot in a pre-owned Kia Sorento straight to the nearest Wendy’s. My car was specially delivered to me at my home. Now that’s what I call employee appreciation. My car was delivered by a larger man – somewhere between Rob Kardashian and Ruben Studdard. He then proceeded to “thoroughly inspect” the car, and I put that in quotes because he literally kicked the tires as if kicking a rock down the sidewalk, and opened and closed all the doors. So I now knew that they brought me a car with working doors and wheels that hold up after being kicked. Rob Studdard dropped the key in my hand and told me to be safe. I told him I would.
I climbed into my new whip and put the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, much like I do when I hear the word tacos. I made sure my mirrors were in the right position for maximum #safety, then turned on my favorite radio station for maximum #fun. What could possibly go wrong?
I don’t know if this is some kind of record, but I managed to fuck up the car within three days. I’d probably driven 20 miles total. I got into a crash with a telephone outside my apartment. The last time I felt this stupid was freshman year physics class. I built a bottle rocket for a class project, but I built it completely upside down. This was 1,000 times worse. Basically, I was trying to park in the super cramped spot behind our apartment and failed. There wasn’t enough room, and I hit the telephone pole. And then I hit it again. And just to make sure, once more. The damage was pretty significant. I’m not longer the most eligible female on my block.
About a month later I got into an actual accident with another car. This wasn’t my fault. I repeat, THIS WAS NOT MY FAULT. I know this blog is about making mistakes, but this was not one of them. This was an XTINAACCIDENT. Here’s a play-by-play of what went down: I was pulling out of a spot on North Avenue with my blinker on like a responsible motorist. I pull out and out of nowhere comes a speeding mini-van and it clipped the side of my car. “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” That’s what I said after the car hit mine. My heart was racing as I got out to assess the damage. It wasn’t as bad as I thought, but it would still require a mechanic to fix. The driver and I exchanged a few words, but in the end I let it go because he was Mexican and barely spoke English. I did tell him to be more cuidado (that’s spanish for careful) and he promised he would. Now I have this piece of shit car that is a constant reminder of my failures as a car owner. I wish I could leave it in an abandoned lot and set it on fire…I won’t do that, but I can’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind.
How does one go about returning a company car? “Hey, Conagra, what’s the return policy on cars? Can we just pretend this whole thing never happened and I can go back to taking ubers everywhere?” Oh and I forgot to mention the two parking violations I got. If this experience has taught me anything it’s that I do not deserve a car.