The many ways to rationalize keeping the old car

I don’t know what all the fuss is about. My car is only 15 years old. I have underwear older than she is. She still runs pretty good and for an old dame, her cosmetics aren’t all that bad. I don’t know why my family thinks that it is time for a new one.

There is only a couple hundred thousand miles on her. We bought her when she was only a year old. She already had 35,000 miles racked up when she caught my eye. You know how the young are – always needing to go somewhere, do something. She put more miles on in that first year than in any year since. The previous owners must have been driving her in their sleep.

My car’s not as pretty as she once was, I’ll have to admit. There are some dimples on her sides from close encounters. Her upholstery had a couple of mysterious stains when we first got her and we speculated some gruesome things when we couldn’t get them out. In my more paranoid moments I thought they might be evidence in a crime scene. Now they are barely noticeable and have blended into the detritus of our own lives.

And the radio has lost a little of its zip. The tape player can’t play anything recorded after Willie Nelson’s last big hit. The radio can pick up one radio station. I’ve learned to love National Public Radio. I can only love it, though, after I have turned on the ignition, gotten out of the car, and pulled up the antennae that wants to stop half way up. I guess it tangled with too many unfortunate blackbirds and carwashes over the years.

And then there is the dashboard which is revolting against sun exposure a bit. The dark gray has lightened in spots ... and peeled ... and dried out. If it were human we would probably call these liver spots. Since she is a car, we just call it ugly.

There are also a couple of cracks in the steering wheel. I’ve thought about what I would do if the steering wheel broke completely off – though it isn’t nearly to that dangerous stage. It is good to have a plan B in everything. If the unthinkable did happen, I would grab the broken radio knob stored in the glove compartment and improvise. I’m not ready to put the old girl down yet.

Cars aren’t a status symbol to me. If someone drives a new Cadillac or a Corvette, I may notice it but it doesn’t register anything on the envy scale – at least not like it would if they have a chocolate candy bar gripped in their hands. If the car runs without too many hiccups, I’m just fine with it. I guess it is just a flaw that I have.

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