Shame & Rental Cars (An Embarrassingly Awkward Tale)

February 15, 2012

There shall be no more Movie Mondays.

This isn’t because of an anti-cinematography bent I’m on now.

Rather, my grandma has returned home to St. Louis.

(We all knew her broken shoulder couldn’t last forever.)

Though my Grandma has a fear of flying, having recently experienced the drive from St. Louis to Virginia, she wasn’t willing to live it in reverse and thus I accompanied her home.

This necessitated me renting a car.

Which, given my need to come back to my home, required me returning said car.

I’d forgotten to save the location of the rental company in my GPS when I arrived, which I think I can blame on my Grandma’s mere presence.

(That seems fair, right?)

So returning the car, I found what the GPS claimed to be the rental company’s location.

But my GPS was lying.

(Unless said location was their secret, underground branch and then I owe Molly quite the apology.)

(Molly is my GPS.)


At which point, I was running a bit late and was quite a bit lost.

Then, over the skyline, like Taylor discovering the Statue of Liberty but with a completely different moral, I saw the airport control tower.


Using it as my Northern Star, I found the car rental place and drove in.

(Sadly, this is not the end of the story.)

I pulled into the long line of cars, where a female attendant was standing, motioning me forward.

Now, parking isn’t my strength.

(As many, many left notes have attested.)

(Interesting aside: only once has anyone ever called me regarding a so-terribly-sorry-my-car-drove-in-that-place-where-it-turns-out-your-car-already-was  letter.)

But the woman’s waving hand was insistent, so I pulled forward centimeter by centimeter until eventually I was so positive I was about to hit the car in front of me that I parked despite her continued encouragement.

I gathered Molly and my bag and various car debris and slightly stumbled out into the freezing St. Louis air.

The attendant asked about payment and I stumbled over my words as she sat down in the driver’s seat, glancing about.

She then uttered rather unexpected words.

“This isn’t our car.”

Somehow, in my frantic rush to find Budget’s rental car location, I became flustered.

At least, that’s what I’m assuming happened when I saw the big, bright Hertz sign and pulled in.

Given my personality and inherent awkwardness, I’m not easily embarrassed.

But, as a car had pulled up behind me and I had to have another attendant help me get out of my too-tight parking spot, I could tell this was an especially humiliating moment.

This was reinforced by hearing other attendants start laughing as my predicament was shared.

And wasn’t particularly helped by their gathering along the edge of the car to watch as I blushed and pulled forward and back and forward and back.

I did eventually find the right place.

I even made my flight.

Which is good, as I don’t know if I’d have had the strength to try to rent another car.

When I told my parents they both had the exact same response

“Oh, Megan”



Equally Awkward Reads

* My Flat Tire

* Best Pick-Up Line Ever

* Frugality’s Revenge

Shame & Rental Cars (An Embarrassingly Awkward Tale)

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