#YoungProfessional: The PLPD Blues
by Brent McDermott
I’M EMBARRASSED TO drive my car. The bumper has a green streak and prominent dent. The driver’s side door opens up just enough for me to squeeze my small frame into the driver’s seat. And when that door closes, it has the look of a recently shotgunned beer can. But the shabby appearance isn’t what shames me. Every time I get behind the wheel, I’m reminded of my choice to drop my collision and comprehensive coverage and purchase PLPD auto insurance. PLPD stands for Personal Liability and Property Damage—it’s the “catastrophic coverage” of car insurances.
Last week, my car was in an accident while I took a nap. In the week before the wreck, I had attended a funeral in Indiana, ran a marathon in Virginia, and drove 42 hours to experience both of those exhausting events. It goes without saying that I needed some rest. Did I fall asleep at the wheel and crash my car? No. I made a sleep-deprived decision and loaned my car to an out-of-town friend who was unaccustomed to Ann Arbor’s many downtown one-ways.
When he called for directions after losing my address in a text thread, craving more sleep I rolled over and sent his call to voicemail, unaware of his dilemma. Twenty minutes later, he sideswiped a car trying to find my house.
A few years ago, I asked a close friend if I could borrow his SUV to pick up an armoire. He politely declined my request, explaining that he never allowed anyone else to drive his car. I understood his decision, but vowed that I would never subscribe to his risk-averse logic, but at the time I thought my pal was being needlessly uptight and cautious. The same friend was also living with his parents to save money for a house, and always sat out on spontaneous adventures and expensive road trips. I was proudly living in an expensive downtown apartment, “living in the moment,” with no regard for “Future Brent.”
Now, I get it.
A few months ago he closed on a perfect starter condo, contributes to a 401K, and definitely has collision insurance. Meanwhile, I’m still treading financial water, hoping an anvil doesn’t land on my head.
It has been five days since the accident and I haven’t found the stomach to go to the body shop. Even though my friend involved in the accident has agreed to pay the cost of repair, I’m terrified to get an estimate. What if my friend can’t pay and it’s too much for me to front? I can’t shake a cartoon image of myself, ten years younger, a fuller head of hair, looking into a crystal ball, seeing a 30-year-old driving a battered Chevy Aveo, and asking, “What the f@#$ happened?”
Back in 2011, with the help of my infinitely more responsible older sister, I bought a car. Had it been up to me, I would have driven off with something like an El Camino or a wood-paneled Wagoneer. But Kelly’s loan came with very adult conditions such as efficient gas mileage, high resell value, and a low odometer reading.
After I found a boring but sensible match, I was immediately confronted with the concept of “actions have consequences” when shopping for car insurance. Thanks to my reckless past, the quotes were sky high. It turns out that getting an MIP (minor in possession) in your teens, a handful of speeding tickets and a drunken disorderly in your early twenties, and a DUI when you’re 25, will result in sky-high insurance rates.
Despite the staggering quotes, my sister insisted that I take the collision insurance. Unbeknownst to her and still oblivious to “Future Brent,” I took the PLPD.
I used to think that life was too expensive to avoid shortcuts. Especially now that I’m living in Ann Arbor, life is expensive. Tally up the monthly price tags on rent ($600), car payments ($300), PLPD insurance for high-risk drivers ($200), student loan payments ($250), cell phone ($80), utilities ($100), and other less expensive things such as gas, groceries and dog food, and the appeal to take shortcuts is clear.
But, the older I get, the more I realize how necessary it is to avoid shortcuts. Amassing a rainy day fund on a fixed income is challenging. But the more shortcuts in life that I take (like having PLPD insurance), the more frequently I get rained on, and I never seem to have an umbrella.
I mentioned earlier that the 20-year-old version of myself would look into a crystal ball and ask, “What the f@#$ happened?” My hope is that if I were to look into a crystal ball today to see myself at 40, I would find a life free of PLPD-esque shortcuts, more short-term sacrifices for long-term stability and a better plan for rainy days. If I did see that, I would marvel and ask, “What the f@#$ happened?” If the crystal ball answered my question, I would see a 30-year-old driving a beat up Chevy, whispering “no more shortcuts.”