Curse of the Purple Flash

Ever since we purchased my Toyota Corolla, it has been Teressa's dream to have the car painted. She was embarrassed to be seen in public in the car and would refuse to let me drive it to places we might be seen in public (like dropping off Mason at school). Since the car's original color was purple, we dubbed it the Purple Flash, after the original name of the Ricks College (now BYU-Idaho) Scroll. While the car was originally purple, it had long since suffered so much sun and sand damage from its time in El Paso that there were parts of the car where it was difficult to determine it had once been purple.

We had been saving up for a new paint job for a while, so when we had a minor accident on the freeway the day before Samuel was born, it seemed like as good a time as any to get the car painted. We decided to hold off until January when I was off from work so we wouldn't have to get a rental car. While we were waiting, the car was hit and the rear end was damaged, this time to the point that we were using duct tape to hold the rear bumper on. (I called it my racing stripe.)

January finally rolled around, we dropped the car off at the auto shop and we eagerly awaited our "new" car. There would be no more purple car for us. I had picked a manly shade of blue, and with a car of one color, surely even Teressa wouldn't refuse to ride with me.

The results were stunning. The car looked wonderful--so good, in fact, that Teressa insisted on driving it home from the shop. We talked about how many years from now we would continue driving the car (rather than how quickly we wanted to sell it, as had often been the case before the car was painted.) And for a week life was good.

Then one day, as I'm driving to work, I pull into the left lane on the freeway to pass a semi. Suddenly I see an object in the road, and there is nowhere to go. To my right is the semi. To the left is the concrete barrier that divides the freeway. And directly in front of me is a fiberglass pickup shell. There was no time to stop, and no chance to do swerve. So I followed my only option: I hit the shell. I started hollering right at the point of impact. It wasn't that I was scared or that I was injured. No, I was hollering because someone had left this big piece of trash in the road, and now my nice looking car is going to be looking like trash.

The insurance company is now inspecting the car. We should hear in a few days if they are going to total it or not. Well, I guess I'm just not meant to drive cars that don't have at least a few scratches dents on them.