Last week, the last week of the month during which I was supposed to get Luna inspected, I was forced to break down and bring her to the garage. After digging through my glove box forever (someone tell me why I feel the need to save the menu for a restaurant located two hours away, in my glove box, no less?), I managed to find the registration which I promptly handed over to the overly talkative (read: not very verbose) mechanic who got behind the wheel and drove my baby away.
I live in fear of the motor vehicle inspection process, mostly because my car is still relatively new and if it fails inspection, there’s going to be a very expensive reason why. I don’t want to have to call home begging for money (I’m supposed to be an adult, after all), and let’s face it, I can’t afford the cost of fixing most of what could possibly go wrong with a nice car like mine.
My last car, “Little Blue” – which was, yes you guessed it, little and blue! – was a Geo Prizm that was the butt of most of my friends’ jokes. But Little Blue was paid off and during a time when gas was pushing $5 per gallon, was also relatively economical, so I stuck it out.
In 2007, during an impromptu visit back home, I was seized with a burning desire to swing by the car dealership I spent the majority of my high school and college careers working for. As I pulled onto the lot, I noticed a beautiful, shiny black Ford SUV in the show room.
“Buy me,” it whispered to me as I passed it on my way to the sales manager’s office.
“Hey, can I take that on a test drive?” I asked Mr. Manager, pointing my thumb at Black Beauty. He handed over the keys and a dealer plate (one of the perks of working for a dealer for so long is they trust you with their new vehicles), and I was off on a joy ride. Alone. When I returned, I asked how much money he could cut off the MSRP for me.
“You really want it?” he asked.
I gave him the doe-eyed Bambi face, batted my lashes and said “absolutely.” He took the figures he needed to work out a payment plan and I continued ogling the fine craftsmanship before me.
Within minutes, Mr. Manager came back to give me the bad news: “I can’t get you in this on your budget,” he said as my face fell. Then, the good news: “I can, however, get you in this one.” He indicated another new, slightly smaller silver SUV. I was sold.
Two days later, I arrived, check in hand, to turn over the keys to Little Blue and drive off in my very first brand new car. As I signed the title to the Geo over, my friend and mechanic Joey walked up to me.
“Give me the keys to Little Blue,” he said. (Yes, even the mechanics knew I named my car.) I gave him a quizzical look, did what he said, and went back to signing my life away. When they finally handed me the keys to my new car and walked me outside, I noticed Little Blue was not where I parked him.
“I moved it around back,” Joey said, reading my mind. “I knew if you drove off in your new car, looking at your old car in the rearview mirror, you’d probably cry and it would tarnish that whole new-car-buying experience.”
He knew me so well.
Last week, three years after I made what I still consider to be the biggest impulse buy ever, I stood outside the garage watching the mechanic do his rounds. As I silently willed Luna to pass, I felt a sense of nostalgia.
“You’re all set,” the mechanic said when he finished.
“You mean she passed?” I nearly squealed.
“Um, yes, you passed.”
I let out a sigh of relief as I forked over the inspection fee, got behind the wheel and headed back home.
I can’t help but love my car. It’s been in my life for longer than a portion of my friends and my boyfriend combined. It’s the longest relationship I’ve had to date, and I’ve committed myself to it for at least another four years. In that respect, I suppose my attachment is more financial than emotional; but they’re still feelings, right?
Column reprinted with permission from The Journal Register newspaper.
Column reprinted with permission from The Journal Register newspaper.
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