Before I get stuck into this post, I’d like to clarify that I am a very emotional person. I’m talking full blown sobbing at sad movies / happy TV shows / advertisements that tug on my heartstrings. I can’t kill a spider or a fly because in the moment between spotting the critter and doing something about it, I invent a story in my head about the valid and full life I’d be taking away if I was to squish him; the family, goals and dreams he’d leave behind. So yeah, this level of attachment isn’t unusual, but I still want to write it out.
I sold my car today. Well, yesterday kind of, but the lovely guy who bought her is going to be here in 72 minutes to pick her up- and I’m kind of a okay-but-a-little-bit-wobbly-wreck.
She took a while to sell, probably because the ad started with ‘Suzie the Subie’.. and went on to describe her unique and lovely personality and zest for adventure. No regrets though, because I’d hate for her to be driven by someone that didn’t get it.
When I got my licence, at the tender age of eighteen, my life changed. Door opened to freedom that I hadn’t even realise existed; a trip as short and insignificant as heading down to the deli on a rainy afternoon made me feel like I was flying. When I bought myself a 1996 Suburu Sportswagon, that feeling only became more certain.
How could I put in an ad, that for the first year of our relationship Suzie felt as much like a home as she did a car? That after earth-shattering fights with my boyfriend at the time, her sturdy frame held me as tightly as I needed to be held? That we would drive around together until 4:30AM when I was miserable, until the numbness subsided? That we would head out to beaches and hills and neverending vineyards on sunny Sunday afternoons, just the two of us learning how to love life again after heartbreak?
How could I say that conversations she overheard changed my life, opened my mind, taught me new ways to be?
Should I jot in after ‘great on fuel’ and ‘minor cosmetic damage’ that the nights I wound up sleeping on my seat because I’d never drive home drunk gave me the strength to be independent, or that for every time the radio dropped out at random, each occasion someone mistook her for a taxi, or a boy’s car, or a suped up ride with some kind of mischief maker inside, she’d taken me somewhere that I needed to be safely, and surely, and with a sense of understated, uncounted grace?
In the end, I sold her for a little less than what I was aiming for. Her new owner has promised to always think of her as Suzie (even if he doesn’t call her that in front of his mates), and it makes me a little bit happy to think that her life is about to start all over again; creaky bones, infinite memories and all.