I have never stolen a car, but I have tried. More than once. The fact that I’ve been an unsuccessful car thief should count in my favour. Right?

I have had a condition for decades, and I’m pretty sure it’s incurable. I suffer from CRB—Car Recognition Blindness. If another car is similar in colour and shape to mine and parked in the same general vicinity, it’s fair game regardless of make. It’s not fatal or debilitating, but it is embarrassing. When we replaced our car last summer, I tried to choose a colour that would stand out in a parking lot, but it seems many other people had the same idea. I have no clue how many times I have been the star performer as a would-be car thief in security camera footage.

Do you have any idea how embarrassing CRB is? Once during my son’s middle school years, I made a quick stop at the bank on our way to his activity. I locked the car while I ran inside, and upon my return, my key wouldn’t open the lock. Frustrated, I happened to glance over my shoulder and saw my puzzled son watching me from the passenger seat of the white van next to it. I quietly slunk away from the scene of the crime I had tried to commit, and sheepishly clambered into my own white van. My confused child said, “Mom, why were you trying to get into that car?” Busted! And the would-be car thief’s face glowed a lovely shade of red.

If this condition isn’t incurable, it is at least chronic. A few years later, in a different parking lot, I tried to open the trunk of my silver car. It wouldn’t open, which was frustrating because, being keyless, it should have responded to my fob. Irritation mounting, I kept pressing the trunk button. That’s when I noticed the trunk had popped open on a car three spaces away and announced my folly to all and sundry. A man walking past observed my little dramedy and burst out laughing.

Although CRB might be rare, I am not the only sufferer. My grandchildren and I had gone strawberry picking, and as we were loading our cache into the trunk, a fellow picker laden with baskets of berries trotted to my car and flung open the back door. Stunned by the car seats inside, he then backed away quickly and looked around dazedly for his vehicle. It wasn’t there. Then realization struck that he had brought his wife’s car, not the one identical to mine, doubling his embarrassment. Evidently, he had a milder case of CRB because his was an identical car, but it is proof that the condition is not gender specific. I had no idea why he wasn’t concerned with my poking around “his” trunk, though.

Fortunately, only once has someone shouted, “That’s MY car!” as I tried to break into their vehicle. Also, fortunately, the words were uttered by a woman who was compassionate when I then pivoted and spotted my identical car in the same position, one row over.

As we age, we accept some things about ourselves, and this is one I’ve made peace with. It’s unlikely my CRB will go away anytime soon. At least my long-suffering husband hasn’t had to come to the police station to spring his would-be car thief wife. I want to keep it that way.

Brenda Erb Roberts