I recently upgraded from a car that was determined to get itself drowned in a canal to a car that I can safely depend on to get me back home from wherever I’ve been. I didn’t want to shell out the blasted money, but it appeared that I was doing so anyway with one mechanical issue after another.
So this new car is, well, newer, prettier. At this point it’s just icing on the cake, but icing that I can appreciate. Or can I? When I showed the car to my brother, he emphasized what a good-looking car it is. Then it seemed like a sadness took over him and he said, “Damn, I feel like you’re going to destroy this car.”
Excuse me? What’s that supposed to mean, huh? This is my ego talking. I know exactly what that’s supposed to mean. Despite every good intention, every motivational pep talk to myself, every to do list, my car is always a mess. I’ve probably spent a whole two years of my life asking folks to excuse the condition of my car.
Not too long ago, it was sitting in my driveway for over a week because it doesn’t want to live anymore. That week included lots of wind, rain and flowers from the mango tree flying around. This trifecta conspired to coat my car in a layer of filth only acceptable on Jeep commercials. I wanted to wash it. I intended to wash it, but as it was just a sitting duck in my driveway anyhow, and I had other things I preferred to do, I didn’t.
When my mechanic got around to “repairing” the problem, I made plans to meet a friend over coffee the next day. I got cute and walked out of my house to the horrible realization that my car looked like an invitation for squatters to, well, come squat. But what was I to do? I had an appointment and time was up.
I distinctly remember saying to my friend that my car seemed to be running very roughly and that I didn’t trust it. I said, “God forbid this car breaks down again and I have to call a tow truck.” I have AAA, so I wasn’t worried about cost. I was worried about my dignity. Guess what the fuck happened? Yeah, the car wouldn’t start, and I had to call a tow truck. As I flagged him down in the parking lot, a wave of shame washed over me. Then I said that old time-worn line: Please excuse the condition of my car. Why Lyz, why does it have to be this way? To make matters worse, he was cute and had no mustard stains on his shirt (which I was obviously hoping for).
But it’s not just the outside of my car that challenges me (I like this word choice, challenge, it almost makes me sound noble). You know what confuses me more than algebra? How people can keep their cars looking like they don’t live in them. My car is like my mobile studio apartment. If I ever got stranded in the middle of nowhere, I’d have about 6 days worth of outfit changes on hand with shoes to spare. Yeah, I’m not one of those motherly women who keeps emergency granola bars in my car or purse. I keep emergency bikinis and shoes, and dresses and pants, and bras and panties. Wait, and books and sunglasses.
No person has ever opened my passenger door and sat down straight away; I’ve got to move my extra sunglasses, water, books, journal and headphones from the seat first. I’ve got my shit together (on my passenger seat) so good, it looks like I don’t have my shit together. I’ve also got a lot of junk in the trunk, which I’ve been told is a good thing. I’m starting to grow suspicious of that though.
I open my trunk in public places like I’m hiding a dead body in there. Nothing to see here folks, just keep it moving. The all-time low was when I lied and told someone who accidentally got an eyeful of my trunk that I was in the process of moving houses. It was true… about 3 months prior. No wait, the all-time low was when a co-worker followed me to my car to grab something and he got an eyeful of my bra and panties. Incidentally, I had a duffle bag in my trunk- part of my next level strategy to keep my car neat and organized- but it was unzipped, and its contents were spilling out. Sigh. Life is a vampire.
My brother is making it his mission to help me (although I suspect he’s doing it more for the car’s sake then mine) by offering this advice.
Brother: You should definitely buy some seat covers for this car.
Me: But why would I want to cover up the pretty leather seats?
Brother: Because that’ll keep them clean, and when you’re going somewhere nice you can remove the covers and pull up stuntin’ on them bitches.
Clearly, I’ve got a lot to learn because I’ve never pulled up anywhere stuntin’ on anyone. Maybe this was the thing that I needed all along to keep me in line. #goals
I’m going into this new car attempting to be a different person. Yes, I’ve said the exact same thing with every car I’ve ever owned, but it’s possible, right? Growing up, for the most part, I didn’t care if my room was a mess, but as an adult, I love my house to be decorated and neat. People can change. Wish me the best. I wanna be a lady, but my car is a wreck.
How about you? Is your car always full of your life? Are you removing makeup brushes and lipstick tubes from your cup holders before setting down your morning coffee? Or are you of that noble breed who always keeps their car strictly for the purpose of driving? I’m aiming for somewhere in the middle. Any suggestions on how to make that work?
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