It's (not) just a scratch

Exactly a week ago today, hubby was driving my car and the tire blew out sending him careening into a telephone pole. (He's okay, I promise) Well, careening isn't the most appropriate word when the car is only going 25 mph immediately after making a right-hand turn, but you get my point.

So he paid a little visit to this telephone pole and we have been sitting on hold ever since. We are down to one car, which isn't all that bad since I take the commuter train to work every morning. But it's a bit frustrating that our kindly insurance company and the auto shop that was the lucky recipient of our banged-up car keep telling us different things. After seven days, we have received no estimate and no indication on whether or not they will declare it a total loss. Among many other things, we think the frame is bent and the air bags deployed, which on a low-end, 5-year-old car means a big chunk of change in comparison to its value.

Even though I hadn't actually driven my car for three weeks before this happened, I'm feeling a bit trapped without access to a motor vehicle. I can walk to several restaurants/bars, a movie theater, a grocery store and a bookstore, but I can't help feeling like I am being drawn to locales outside of my designated radius. Like Target. And the really good gelato place. And Target.

I know I need to get used to this slow-moving, energy-exerting way of gettin' around. Prior to the car hurtling into the telephone pole, we had been talking about selling it anyway. The plan was to sell that car and trade in my hubby's for a shiny new Prius. And while he would be able to zip around in his new anti-gas-guzzling vehicle, I would still be left to my own two feet.

I wonder if there is a bus that runs between my house, the gelato place and Target.