A Sweet Ride

I was discussing my soon-to-be expiring Audi lease with my son.

“I don’t know if I like it enough to keep it,” I said.

“I agree,” he answered, clomping through the house like a Clydesdale. “It wasn’t you, Mom.”

Interesting. Bear in mind that people in my life have said this about every car I’ve ever driven. I’ll go backwards, before the Audi:

Middle child, looking at every angle of my Chevrolet Equinox parked in driveway, on my first day home with it: (Shaking his head) “It’s o.k. I guess, but it’s not really you, is it?”

I mean, I thought it was.

All boys in my trail-rated Jeep Wrangler, as they watch me wave to other Jeep drivers: “Mom, stop. You are not cool enough for this Jeep.”

I knew that the day I bought it.

All three boys, as I shepherded them from athletic youth activity to athletic youth activity in our family Chevrolet Tahoe: “Can dad drive us in this truck next time?”

Point noted. Dad is cooler.

All three boys as babies/toddlers, as I shepherded them from errands to play dates to supermarket to t-ball in our family Chevrolet Tahoe: “Grrhdhpsdopspaf, phlooooppp, sjdkfjiw.”

Baby babbling noted. Too much truck for me, I get it.

Youngest child as a baby, watching me get into my Mazda Miata convertible: “Ew, Mom.”

The Miata lasted less than a year.

A student watching me park my cabernet-colored Jeep Cherokee in the faculty parking lot, then accosting me in the hallway: “Mrs. Oves, I don’t see you in that truck. At all.”

How can you not see me? I was right THERE.

My late husband, a day after I announced I was pregnant with twins as he watched me squeeze my way into my Mazda RX-7 sports car: “You’re not going to fit into this car much longer. We’ll have to get you something for your girth.”

Gee, thanks. I never felt cooler in my life than when I was driving that car with my Alanis Morrisette CD blasting.

My late husband when we were still dating, as he drove me back in my Chevrolet Tracker from the dealership, since I could not drive stick:  “I just don’t get how someone buys a vehicle without knowing it is stick shift, and then refuses to learn. How did you intend to get to work?”

I obviously hadn’t thought that far ahead.

My calm older brother on the phone, after I told him I had totaled his Dodge Charger while he was doing a military tour of duty overseas: “That’s a shame, Mary, that car was you.”

So maybe that was the last time a car was me. So what’s left?

I’m thinking a cement mixer. A VW bus. An Airstream.

Anyway, my close and personal friend Dave Ramsey, who personally counsels me on everything financial, wants me to let the dealership buy off the lease so I can just buy a clunker. The thought of my having that extra money every month makes him giddy with glee.

Part of me doesn’t want to give up the Audi symbol that reflects onto the ground when I open my driver’s door at night. Or the encapsulating “thunk” whenever someone closes the door. The safety, the lines, the sheer vanity of the Audi.

Can I give that up?

But there’s something about driving a clunker that appeals to me, besides the obvious benefit of no car payment. Terrestrial radio. No computer system that tries to override my brain. Nicked and scratched, inside and out, well-loved and imperfect.

Anyway, at the age of 56, that describes me perfectly. Some mileage, some wear-and-tear, but in the long run?

Just a sweet ride.