while I was away from my desk, continued

As I started to share a few days ago, my car was stolen. On a hot, sweaty September night a couple of weeks ago, my car was taken from the parking lot of my condo building; the gated, security guarded parking lot of my condo; the overly-lit, gated, security guarded parking lot of my condo. To make this scenario all the more ridiculous, my car, in case you didn't know, was a 1995 Honda Civic with a dent in the side, a sagging front bumper and at least one gross Starbucks cup covered in lipstick in the cup holder. It was parked between a sexy little convertible BMW and a brand new Prius.

I went out to leave for work the next morning and it just wasn't there. Just an empty space where I had left it the night before. I stood there a minute, let it all soak in, and called 911. After calling I was approached by two other sad-sacks who had found their cars not stolen, but vandalized. I told them my car had been stolen and that the police were on the way. One of them asked me what kind of car I had, I told her, and she said, "Now that's really weird. Why would they steal that?"

The police arrived quickly to file a report. The officer explained to me that 1995 Honda Civics are one of the most stolen cars for three reasons - 1. they are easy to break into, 2. the parts are sold at top dollar, and 3. Mexicans like to turn them into tricked out clown cars like this:

I quickly decided that if didn't get my car back, I was hoping for the third fate. I sort of liked the idea of seeing a hot pink low-rider on Buford Highway and wondering if maybe it was my car living an exciting second life in the latino fast lane.

Sadly, la vida loca was not in the cards for my Honda. Its dignity stripped, along with its tires, my car was found abandoned in a Dekalb county ditch with no bumpers, its headlights dangling from their wires like a pair of gouged eyeballs. The city towed it to its final junk yard resting place. And just to have them take the car off my hands, I had to go and pay a fee of $125 to a large, humorless black woman perched behind bullet proof glass overlooking the bleak sea of car skeletons - a cruel way to have to say goodbye to my loyal chariot of 13 years.

Stress ensued in the coming days as I became unreasonably panicked at the prospect of buying a new car - something that happens when you keep the same car you drove in high school until you're 31. Fortunately it all worked out thanks in part to the level head of J and the courteous assistance of Associated Credit Union. I'm now the proud owner of a beautiful Mazda 6. It feels especially fancy to me - again, I was accustomed to driving a really old car - so I'm tooling around town at an admittedly slower pace, (ok, like an 80 year-old grammy), am considering some type of plastic sheeting to protect the entire interior from stains, and feel a little sad every time I see an old Civic on the road - painted day-glow green, or maybe purple, with a really tall spoiler, giant tires with super shiny rims, and an ever-so-subtle hint of glitter shimmer in the paint.