A thief broke into my car in the middle of a dark and stormy night. My husband found the damage when he went out to get the paper the next day. The perpetrator had smashed the back window and torn out the headrest.Glass was shattered over the backseat, covering dozens of books I’d planned to donate to the library. A dress hung by one sleeve, the price tag still on it. It was to go back to the store where I’d shopped the sale rack. (I don’t think they’ll take back a wet dress covered in glittery shards.) I didn’t have to call the police to investigate. The perpetrator was still there, resting on top of my car. It was a huge tree limb that gripped the roof of my tiny Toyota. The branches had to be cut off and hauled away.And here begins my first-world problem. I’ve been living without my car for almost three weeks. My husband and I have been sharing. Since I work from home, it’s not that bad. Most people around the world would be happy to have one car. It’s a luxury. Here, where towns and cities are built around car culture, families have… Read full this story
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