Recently I finished a nice morning run on Zuma Beach just as the sun rose over the ocean and felt pretty good about myself when I pulled into the Arco station on the PCH. The Arco has the cheapest gas in Malibu, which isn’t saying a whole lot, but since I had to drive into Los Angeles that day and was in that part of town anyway it made sense to fill up. I pulled up to the pump behind a small SUV, placed the car in park, and glanced over to make sure my tank was next to the pump, but when I looked forward again I noticed that the SUV was in reverse and coming at me. I honked just a moment before impact. Well, the driver was a nice guy who felt terrible about the accident that did no damage to his vehicle but a number on the front end of mine. We exchanged information and left to face the day.
Later, I reflected on how privileged I am. Let me count the ways: (i) I have a car; (ii) the other driver’s insurance paid for the repairs; (iii) it also paid for a rental car (and side note on even more privilege: the rental was a Toyota Corolla, so compared to my Honda Civic, I continued to turn heads in Malibu); and (iv) a great body shop returned my car good as new.
So given all that, how come everyone I mentioned the accident to responded as if I had lost a pet? And why did I feel as if this was all such a pain in the derriere? Am I really that spoiled?
But on second thought, maybe everyone knows, and everyone includes me, that things like this take up time—and that time is one of our greatest possessions. When I thought of it that way I almost felt justified in pouting over the time I lost getting the car repaired.
Until I considered that pouting over anything is a pretty crappy way to use such a great possession, too.