We are paying off the car that I brought into our relationship. The car that I bought to save on gas when I was single, the car I drove everyday to a job I hated, the car that we are trying to get at least one more year out of is mocking me daily.
I look at in the garage when Dave gets home from work with it, and my skin is literally crawling with anticipation for the day I can haggle with a dealer while trading that bad boy.
I Google review after review to fully prepare myself for the day when we can go for test drives. I look in the mirror and practice my “we’re leaving if you don’t give me my number” face. I dream of scoring all kinds of extras and getting the best price possible. I flashback to my last negotiations and critique my style.
I hope for an asshole salesman that looks to Dave for answers and I look forward to their dismay when Dave defers to me for decisions and numbers. I can’t wait for the new car smell again.
I love the renewal of my love for cars that the introduction of a new car in the family brings.
My first car was a banana yellow 1987 Plymouth Reliant station wagon. The hatch didn’t stay open when you needed to load something, usually c list friends that needed a ride home from school, heads were bumped, bruise were had, fuckity fucks were muttered. The back doors froze in the winter and wouldn’t latch shut, bungee cords were deployed. That bad boy lasted almost a whole year, good times were had, and freedom was discovered. There have been four cars on my own and two “family” cars since the original swagger wagon but every time one comes into my life I am instantly 16 again, at least for the first spin around the block.
I cannot wait to wave goodbye to our “little” car and say hello to 16 again for a few minutes. Maybe I can convince Dave to give me the first ride home minus a car seat and I can indulge in my “16 in New Ken” play list I plan on creating for the occasion.
|This is not the actual swagger wagon but it looked pretty close to this, don't be jealous.|