Thanks for the Memories

The love affair is beginning to loose its oomph.  The bud is off the rose.  What used to be an anticipated rendezvous is now becoming perfunctory.  The introduction was a beautiful rite of passage reserved for my coming of age.  It’s true, my car and I have seen our better days and I fear our time is limited.

It is no-one's fault; it was bound to come to this.  After five long years and over 65,000 miles, the strain of the relationship is causing me to lust for another.  There were subtle happenings, the first shopping cart to come crashing into the side, leaving its mark; a careless blue car door pushed into my shiny white chariot; a nick here and a scratch there; even the new car “smell” dissipated after a while.  I was committed, at the start, in giving a weekly full service bath and a thorough vacuuming… that slipped to monthly, then quarterly indulgences.  The wax and detailing ended up not being what I had promised in the onset of our involvement I religiously serviced at every designated mile feeling it was the least I could do.  I preferred the higher octane in the tank until the service manager told me that my love didn’t really know the difference and for $.20 less a gallon, I thought it was one luxury I could forego.

Although I had graduated into this mom-mobile, it has always been more than a means of transportation.  Maybe I didn’t get the same elation as I had when I purchased an amazingly engineered car that liked to go very fast on the autobahn in Germany.  I felt it was my duty to not inhibit this miraculous machine and allow the car the freedom and speed it so desired and by doing so gave me quite a thrill, too (but that is another topic for later consumption).  But after bringing it back to the states, this well endowed sports car pined away for the unrestrained speeds of its fatherland, eventually refused to speak to me and rebuffed my advances and eventually died a very sad death.  So then, how could I not respect the vehicle that was ready at a whim, with nary a complaint, to transport man, child or beast to the designated destination?

Well, to be honest (and I want to be honest), this darling to drive is rather piggy when it comes to consumption of precious petroleum.  Even though I look at this as my home on wheels and mobile office (complete with 32 oz.  drink cup, emery board, magazines, a stray soccer shoe, chapstick, Altoids, a blanket, water bottle and files for every volunteer event I am associated with), I have concern with continuing this liaison.  If I look at just the numbers, average them a bit, don’t add in the actual cost of the vehicle, the tires (new or snow), service costs, windshield wipers, washing or insurance, this 4000-pound lady has consumed approximately $5600 worth of luscious liquid over the time I have had her.  Not that I am turning fickle after all this time, I just want more.

So I have pulled the trigger and have stepped up to do my civic duty of preserving the world's natural resources and purchased a new fangled hybrid motor vehicle.  My anticipation is building as the gas prices steadily rise and I have been promised 45 mpg – be still my heart.  Frequent reassurance from the salesman that I am still at the front of the line, which has now grown to 51 other deserters of the 18 mpg crowd, and with only 7 short months to wait until the delivery of my new object of affection, I can hardly suppress my enthusiasm and excitement.  But while I wait, I think I will take special care of this friend who has taken such good care of me.  I will promise to appreciate how fortunate I have had to have such an ally with such simple wants over the years and to value the time we have had together.

Cynthia A. McClelland, curious observer of the obvious with interpretations of the oddities of daily life.  Mother, wife and lover of the furry, resides in the north Lake Tahoe area.

Cynthia A. McClelland © 2003-