Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Side of the Road
I'm trying to convince myself that we don't need this.
I'm not doing a terribly good job, though. See, the thing is, I kind of want to need it.
Is that weird? Forget it, you don't have to answer. I know it's weird.
It's not that I don't like my car-- I do. I don't love it, but I like it. After eighteen months, I haven't gotten tired of it and, for a thirty-one-year-old who's owned eleven cars, that's kind of saying a lot. But, with twins coming, my car is looking decidedly small. Not necessarily in interior room, though it's pretty small that way, but in the trunk/storage area. It's hard to conceive of schlepping around twin-related gear in that trunk. Maybe part of that is because my trunk is, currently, filled with shit.
Maybe it'll look bigger once it's cool enough outside to clean it out.
Or maybe we'll capitulate and go for the station wagon. Oddly enough, I don't think I would feel like a lame-ass sell-out loserballs driving a station wagon. I'd certainly feel that way driving a minivan, but a station wagon is almost retro enough to be anti-cool in that schdork sort of way. I sort of feel like I'm destined to drive a station wagon. The impending arrival of the twins is sort of solidifying that belief.
I snapped a picture of that Volvo 940 wagon (191,178 miles, new exhaust system at a cost of $700, according to the Post-It note attached to the window-- I don't know how much they want for the car, but I'm guessing it's more than $700) while on my way to take the dogs to get their immunizations updated for purposes of boarding. Immediately upon seeing the car, I wanted it.
Of course, I'm not going to buy it. I'd have to get rid of my car first. And, anyway, the 940 is probably six or seven years older than my S-40. The 940 wagon has far fewer airbags than my car has. It's rear-wheel drive. Basically, it's all wrong. But I wanted it. I'm that way with most cars I see parked by the side of the road with a For Sale sign wedged in the window. It doesn't matter if I'd never previously thought about that specific car in an I-could-own-that-and-be-happy sort of way before, the moment I see one up for grabs, I get grabby.
Maybe I feel sad for it, as someone who was raised on "The Love Bug" and, hence, became very attached to the idea that cars have emotions. It's sitting there, abandoned, unwanted, its map pockets and glove box devoid of all of the love and affection and family memories it experienced through the years. And I want to save it, whether it's right or not, whether it makes sense or not, whether it's rear wheel drive or not.
I know it'll go to a good home, or, at the worst, it'll be donated to public radio or to the Shriners or to the local fire academy so they can train their boys and girls about rescuing trapped occupants, and they'll saw it to pieces with the Jaws of Life, and it'll have served its purpose.
Can't save them all, I suppose.