This afternoon, I’m
anxiously patiently waiting for news about my car.
If you’re following along, you know that my son wrecked it before Christmas. If not, you can read about it here, on my wife’s blog.
Word of warning: while the above link is hardly NSFW, the accident DID catch me with my pants down, a fact my wife clearly reveled in recounting.
Anyway, I dropped off my car at the body shop on Monday and have been driving a rental this week. It’s a Hyundai Sonata.
The Sonata is a decent car, but it’s not mine.
Mine is a Kia Forte and it’s supposed to be ready this afternoon. At least, that’s what John at the body shop told me yesterday.
He also assured me he’d call when he was ready for me to fetch it.
But he hasn’t … yet.
And now I’m anxious – as anxious as our dog Rodney gets when my wife leaves for work. He carries on so much, you’d think the fate of the universe hinges on her return.
My car isn’t that integral to the survival of the species, but you can bet I’ll make like Rodney and do the welcome home dance when I finally get it back.