Sunday our car was stolen from in front of our house. We forgot to lock it when we came home from the grocery store. Our street is normally pretty busy, with lots of foot traffic, people walking dogs, neighbors going in and out. For whatever reason, Sunday was quieter than usual. There must have been a window of opportunity for someone to take a couple of minutes to open our car door, and hotwire our car.
The car was no prize -- a 2003 Honda Pilot with 170,000 miles on it. It was beat up, with lots of dings and scratches and issues. I repaired our side mirror with tape. In short, it was a car only an owner could love.
I should be outraged. And I was, for an hour or so. It just seemed so unreal. I mean this is my HOME. And it was Sunday afternoon. I don't live in a "dangerous" area. I do live in the city, but in a neighborhood of single family homes, with trees and sidewalks and kids and dogs and all the things that are usually found in neighborhoods. And the car was MINE. MINE. I worked for it. I paid for it. We took our son to school in that car. We went on car trips. That car went to Nova Scotia, to Montreal, Tennessee, Michigan, Maine, New York.
But the anger went away. And I think I should be pissed. I really do. I just can't seem to sustain it. It seems to me that people steal because they've given up other options. I had a car; someone else didn't. It's really that simple. Maybe instead of moaning because I don't have a car I should wonder why EVERYONE who needs one doesn't have one.
I will be happy to get another car. I'll really enjoy it, I think. But I might just look at it differently.