I know I’m not exactly going out on a limb with the title of this post, but I feel the need to vent. As you have likely already seen on my Facebook page (since I don’t think anyone who reads this comes from anywhere else), my father-in-law’s car was stolen from his office parking lot yesterday afternoon. It’s a 1984 Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser station wagon, so it’s not exactly the most desirable car. But he liked it, and I thought it was cool, because I’m weird like that.
I too have had a car stolen, so I know too well the sinking feeling when you walk to where you last parked your car and it’s not there. In 2003, while visiting my girlfriend (now wife) in Toledo, my pride and joy 1987 Monte Carlo was stolen from her apartment building. I was completely heartbroken; despite the stigma attached to that model, it had come to define me in many ways and I was – illogically – emotionally wrapped up in it. I had spent too much sweat and blood under, over, and in that car for it to just vanish like that. Seven years and several cars later and I still haven’t gotten over it, and occasionally (jokingly) hold it over my lovely wife’s head. I will never be as attached to another car as I was to that one, for better or for worse (mostly better).
So I hope that big ugly wagon shows up undamaged somewhere, because even though my father-in-law isn’t as crazy about his car as I was about mine, there aren’t many things lower than car thieves.