A Brake Up
After seven years together, this is the longest relationship I’ve ever had with a car. Or a woman, for that matter. In fact, I’ve had relationships in YOU that haven’t lasted as long as we have.
I remember the day we met. It was fate; a total accident. Literally, I totaled my car in an accident. I was desperate to find a rebound–something to just get me from A to B on a limited budget.
I was at the used lot looking at much lesser models when you rolled up. You were not even officially on the market yet, but I still asked about you. “That guy’s trading it in for a Range Rover,” the salesman said.
To be honest, I never imagined myself with something as pretty as you. Your tinted windows, sleek rims and dual exhaust system were, frankly, a bit out of my league. And a sunroof?! I wouldn’t dare. But for some reason, the stars aligned perfectly. The dealer mistakenly quoted a price thousands below Blue Book. I jumped on it. You were a steal I couldn’t resist!
For the next seven years, we drove everywhere in luxurious style. Your ride was so smooth, your leather soft. It was confident knowing I was driving around Hollywood looking like a mildly successful rapper in 2001.
At the beginning, I drove you over 20,000 miles a year and you hardly complained. You just lit up a friendly little light when your gas got low. But over time, your wear and tear would lead to my wear and tears. There were things you just refused to do anymore. Your fluids were beginning to leak, your passenger-side window was sticking and that once supple upholstery had begun to wrinkle.
Still, you did your best. When it was dark, you lit my path. When the sun sweltered, you provided relief for both my body AND feet. And I could always depend on you for a good place to hold a jacket.
Yes, I admit, I sometimes took you for granted. On several occasions, I left your dome light on and wore out your battery overnight. No matter how hard you knocked and pinged, I rarely sprung for anything over 87 octane. You’d have to squeal and squeal before I’d change your brake pads. Oil change “every 3,000 miles?” Right. There were times your floor mats were so disgusting, I was embarrassed to have guests inside. In the back of my mind, I knew it was just a matter of time until I you reached your limit.
Finally, the day came when you blew a gasket. Leaving me stranded on my way to work in the middle of Compton isn’t how I imagined it, but I know you had no control over it. It took me about two weeks and a small fortune to get you back, but I learned a lesson about how to treat a you. You weren’t some cheap rental I could abuse for the extra $11-per-day insurance. If I took care of you, you would take care of me for thousands of miles.
Today, that road has come to an end. Don’t worry, I’ve set you up with someone. A mechanic bought you for his son, which is a perfect fit given your high mileage and iffy electrical system. He’s happy to baby you and give you what you need. You’re better off being with someone who actually appreciates that “old-car smell.”
You were a bargain when I met you, and I’ve let you go for much less than your worth. I hope you’ll understand. At this point, I just want to get rid of you. No offense, but I’m not going to sit here an haggle over a couple hundred bucks when I have this sexy, new vehicle waiting in my garage.
Speaking of which–wow! Cars sure have come a long way since I’ve been out of the market! This one has keyless entry, backup camera (standard) and her sunroof is twice as big as yours. Sure, XM is only free for 90 days, but it’s only a little extra after this honeymoon phase.
So, sweet chariot, thank you for all you’ve given me over the past seven years. I won’t forget your support, especially in the lumbar region. You’ve proven to do much more than get me from A to B, but now, I must move on to C.