Day 110: "Storytime!" - hELArious Lizzy

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I’ve conditioned my students to recognize that when I start class with the word, “Storytime!” it means that something has happened to my car. I’m not sure how the topic of my ancient forms of transportation first came up, but they learned very early on in the year that I drove vehicles older than they are. They heard about my potentially lethal brakes, my excitement over getting new tires, the deer, and the near-death experience with the F350. Students outside my class know me for my old cars; it’s part of my reputation. I’m rather proud of the fact that I’ve been raised on old cars; I’ve never had a car payment, I’ve never had to worry about when I accidentally scratch my car in the garage, and as long as it starts, that rattling sound is just what happens when something gets old. Plus, it seems so hipster of me to have an Ivy League diploma and be driving something within a wink of 200,000 miles. After all, it’s only about 220,000 miles to the moon.

So when I started class on Thursday with the phrase, “Storytime!” they immediately starting guessing. “You hit another deer!” “You blew a tire!” “You hit a dog!” “You totaled your car!”

I’ve never been one who believes in luck, good or bad. But the past two weeks have seemed to be uncharacteristically unlucky. You see, I had to dash from school on Wednesday to run home and prep for a military ball for my husband’s unit. (“Wait Miss…you were going to a ball?” “Yes, children. I was going to a ball.”)

I thought I looked pretty good; my hubster was decked out in his blues. We chose to drive the ’89 Firebird so I could play DD; after all, I did have to teach on Thursday so I couldn’t go crazy, and I am not yet comfortable driving my hubster’s manual. So there we are, stopped at a stoplight at, ironically, the same intersection we nearly got shot at a week before, when the gentleman behind us…

…most likely texting…

…attempting to change lanes…

…fails to even touch his brakes…

…and slams his brand new Chrysler 300 into the back of MY Firebird.

Poor guy might’ve died to save our lives one last time…

While the car actually took the hit pretty well, there is a piece of the body rubbing up against one of the wheel-wells that renders it undrivable, and most likely given the age of the car, totaled. When I told the students that yes, I did total my car, they were shocked – they didn’t figure that I had ACTUALLY managed to destroy two cars within two weeks of each other. Seriously, who does that? Apparently me. I was informed to Please Miss, Don’t Move to Our Town and Drive On Our Roads Anymore. I tried in vain to convince them that none of these incidents were my fault – I wasn’t even driving for the rear-ending – but apparently the bad luck that hovers around me is enough.

All I know is that I am now extremely grateful to the Spanish teacher who is willing to carpool with me for a few days until we figure out all the insurance business, and that I will, mostly likely, have to get a car loan. Dave Ramsey would not be proud.