I sat in my car stunned (partly due to being punched in the mouth by an airbag) as airbag dust floated around me and motor fluids leaked out onto the ground. I momentarily realized the horrifying facts: that I'd been blinded by sun glare and missed a turn into the parking lot, instead hitting - and actually driving my front wheels onto - a concrete island recently, inconveniently constructed between lot entrances.
Once the immediate fog lifted, my first thought, naturally, was to flee. I tried to back up, to undo the damage I'd done, but I couldn't. This is bad, I thought, amidst a slew of obscenities. My poor 13-year-old rusted, dented, embarrassing, paint-corroded (but paid off!) Cavalier was undoubtedly dead. I'd driven it long past family members' pleas (and taunts) to trade it in for a newer model until the wheels almost literally came off in spectacular fashion. Now I no longer had a choice.
A construction worker came over and asked if I was OK, followed soon after by a college student who generously offered me a ride home in his pickup truck. I was thankful for their kindness but simultaneously mortified as a fleet of other motorists - students, faculty, staff, some of them my colleagues - drove around me and my wrecked vehicle, gawking at the crash scene. I tried to tune it out and focus on what I needed to do: call the police. Unfortunately the wait lasted interminably (though actually more like 30 minutes) before a sheriff's officer and tow truck driver arrived to clean up my mess.
The adrenaline wore off after I walked into my office. My whole body started shaking as I set about whittling down my immediate to-do list. In addition to my regular work tasks, I had to report the accident to my insurance company and rent a vehicle until I could purchase a replacement. (Thankfully I'd started car browsing a few weeks earlier, though my target purchase date was more like summer or fall rather than immediately, so I wasn't entirely unprepared.)
A friendly coworker graciously offered me a ride to Enterprise after work to pick up my rental, where I was caught off-guard when asked for two utility bills plus a pay stub. (Was I renting or buying this vehicle?!) After several minutes of fumbling, I managed to pull up the requested information on my smartphone and was on my tentative way. One of the worst aftereffects of a car accident, regardless of circumstances, is that you're afraid to drive again. It doesn't matter if you're to blame or not, you no longer trust yourself not to break the car.
Not surprisingly, I didn't sleep well that night. The next day, I continued browsing cars online and found exactly what I was looking for, right down to the color, mileage, and price: a gently-used Toyota RAV4 approximately 30 miles from my workplace. After sadly cleaning out my car (resting peacefully in a nearby gated auto graveyard) and collecting its license plates, I drove out to the dealership and test drove my dream car, which looked even nicer in person than in the web photos. I cautiously drove it off the lot (still afraid to drive), about a mile and a half up and back down the busy road, and knew when I brought it back I was buying it.
Several weeks later, I'm in love with my new vehicle...but I don't regret waiting so long to find it. Life without a car payment was financially liberating. It allowed me to slowly climb out of debt and travel to Arizona and California (and plan this summer's Paris voyage). In hindsight, I suppose I probably needed a freak accident that literally destroyed my tired old car to force me to take the frightening - and thoroughly humbling - plunge of buying another. (Which I'm not eager to repeat.)
