While my car is getting put back together at the body shop after a recent collision, I’m driving a rental car that my insurance company hooked me up with. And I hate this car.
Wait, I really shouldn’t use the word “hate”.
How about, “vehemently detest.”
Yeah, that’s right, Gift Horse. I see your mouth. And I’m looking right at it.
Because here’s what I experienced in getting a free rental as a loaner car from my insurance company: having no say whatsoever in what I was given.
When I asked what my $40 a day coverage would get me, the rental company assured me that I would be getting a premium car.
And by premium, they probably meant that the interior is luxurious and spacious, and that they were doing me a favor by “upgrading” me to this line of rentals. So, for that, I am grateful they didn’t put me in a well-soiled box car.
But I think “premium” really means a sedan with enough leg and head room to house a small basketball team.
Let me interrupt this little rant by saying that, on a good day, when my spine is feeling sprite and lively, I stand five feet one inch tall.
Not a giant person am I.
So, when I first dipped in to the Chevy Impala after they pulled it up to the curb, I had to spend about an hour adjusting the seat and mirrors so that I could see anything, anything out of the windows.
Because this car is clearly made for someone much taller, more beefy, and perhaps even more manly than I am.
With my seat raised as high and as far forward as it can possibly go, I can’t see the tail of my car out the rear view window. Or the front of my car out the front windshield. Or any side of the car out of any window or mirror at all.
It’s like I need to sit on a freakin’ phonebook, or, even more embarrassing, a booster seat to see what I’m doing.
I am a grown adult, dammit! Though, in this case, I guess I’m taking “grown” a little too far.
You want to know what else makes me feel like a midget in this car? The window base sits higher than my shoulder, so the mere thought of resting my left arm on the ledge is nearly impossible without needing a visit to the chiropractor. I can barely see the speedometer through the steering wheel. My head doesn’t even come in close proximity to the headrest.
I’m surprised the cops haven’t pulled me over for thinking I’m a tween who likes to break the law.
I’m sure that if I were a large male who liked to sit all low in my seat, with my legs stretched as long as they could go to air out the Family Jewels, this car would be fine and dandy. But I am a 40-something petite mother of two who would like to be able to see if I’m about to sideswipe the minivan next to me at car line.
The engine roars at the slightest press of the gas pedal like a muscle car, making me blush with embarrassment when I start to accelerate at a green light. I’m sorry, but that kind of horsepower just screams “I’M OVERCOMPENSATING FOR THE SIZE OF MY MAN PARTS WITH A LARGE AND INTENSELY LOUD ENGINE!”
I’ll just come right out and say it: When I drive this car, I feel compelled to sport a mullet, a muscle shirt and crank up heavy metal music in this car, with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth.
Not. A. Fan.
My kids, however, love the rental car. LOVE. IT.
Mostly because it’s new and different and has a nice, clean, untouched interior. It’s probably the same feeling pioneers experienced when they came upon the western plains.
Plus, the dashboard has this weird little box in the front that goes up and down at the push of a button that my kids love to play with.
What the heck are you supposed to put in this magical little hidey hole?
Probably your weed. To hide it from the po-po, I guess.
Because it’s just that kind of a car.
I know I shouldn’t complain, considering my insurance company is footing the bill. And this massive beast of a car is only temporary. But I’ll be more than relieved to get my old car back and kick this Impala to the curb.
Until then, does anyone have a copy of The Yellow Pages I can borrow?