My Volvo Problem

I have a Volvo.

And I have a Volvo problem.

Want to hear my Volvo problem?

I'm embarrassed by my Volvo.

This little problem of mine is especially annoying because my Volvo replaces my previous car, a PT Cruiser, which was also embarrassing, but for very different reasons.

The PT Cruiser was embarrassing because, well, it was a PT Cruiser. I don't need to say anything more about that, do I?

I didn't realize that the Volvo would embarrass me when I signed all of the contracts and papers and checks necessary to acquire said vehicle but, now that I have owned it for nearly a month, I now understand and am slowly accepting that I am now embarrassed by my own car.

Why?

It's too good for me.

Call this low self-esteem-- maybe that's what it is-- but I do not feel worthy of this particular vehicle. I feel ashamed when I drive it through gritty neighborhoods. When people ask me "Oh, you got a car? What is it?" I immediately start to feel warm and prickly underneath my shirt. I furrow my brow before answering, wet my lips and reply in any of the following ways,

"Oh, it's an old Volvo."

"A used Volvo."

"A 2002 Volvo."

"A small Volvo."

"It's just an old Volvo, an S-40-- you know that's the smallest one they made that year."

"An eight-year-old Volvo."

I hate apologizing for my car, but I do it, and I know that I'm doing it, but I can't stop myself.

Why?

* It has supple leather seats that I wouldn't particularly mind dying in.

* It has heated seats, and I've totally gotten over the I-just-pee-peed-in-my-pants feeling.

* It has faux wood all over the place.

* It has airbags all over the place.

* It has Dynamic Stability Control.

* It's a Volvo.

I'm proud of all of these things, and, yet, I'm also concurrently embarrassed by them. And very much so.

I guess I apologize for the car, or diminish it because I am afraid of being judged. When I told my boss what I got her response was, "Oh! Can you really afford that?" I was immediately ashamed and embarrassed, and I also immediately went online and checked my checking account balance. Still okay. But what she said had a deep impact on me, especially since she is the reason why I make practically nothing.

Could I really afford it?

It was $8,900. I traded in the Cruiser and they mercifully gave me $3,500 for it. $5,400 for a used car isn't really all that much money. Is it? So I bought it outright-- no payments, no nothing. Is what I did okay?

I keep questioning myself. And, everytime I see someone who knows that I work for a small, shitty non-profit and they ask me about what kind of car I drive, I want to fall on the ground and die at their feet rather than pronounce those two dreaded syllables....

Vol

vo.

Oh, God-- just don't make me say it.

I love the car. I really do. I love how precisely it handles, unlike the Cruiser, which was like trying to steer a Hippo on opium across a skating rink, I love the comfortable, supportive, lusciously leathery seats, I love the pick-up of the 1.9 liter turbo, I love the increased fuel economy. I think I love everything about it except for the fact that it's a Volvo. It's just too refined, too beautiful, too uptown.

If I had a homely, fat-chick friend, this is probably exactly how she would feel if we went clubbing together. Poor Gretchen.

The New Swede in Town

Well, I've really done it now.

I bought a car yesterday.

Not only did I buy a car, I bought a Volvo.

Not only did I buy a Volvo, I bought a Volvo from a salesman named "Zen."

I swear.

The vehicular shenanigans began quite innocently enough with a Friday morning coffee and breakfast meeting with my father at Saxby's ("Sexyboys"). I was bemoaning my current state of automotive troubles and travails.

"Mummy-- I am getting rid of Mommy's car tomorrow at the Volvo place-- you will come with me. They are having a huge one-day sale-- blowout. Just see what they have."

I got very annoyed with him.

"What's wrong with you?" I asked-- rhetorically, of course-- he's convinced there's nothing wrong with him. "I can't afford a fucking Volvo. Maybe one that's twenty years old and that's been hit by a deer."

"Mummy, please," he said. "Humor me."

Well, I've never been one to turn down an opportunity to humor my father. So, yesterday morning, I began searching for the title to the P.T. Cruiser. Now, if I were searching for random shards of fabric emblazoned with cupcake print, or notes referring to a meeting I attended four months ago, or a CD I haven't listened to in seven years, I would have experienced no difficulty whatsoever. Because, however, I was searching for an important legal document, it was essentially a task of insurmountable difficulty. I turned this cuntsucker house upsidethefuckdown. Even my wife, who had fought me tooth and nail on whether or not to get rid of the Cruiser (she was the "Not" side) joined in the search.

"We suck," I said, dejected, looking at the piles and piles of shit in the basement.

"I'm sorry we're such slobs," she said, her eyes glazing over the mountains of fabric in the office/sewing/blogging headquarters.

Finally, a thunderclap or a mini-stroke hit me. A while ago, I had tried to outsmart us by actually placing important documents into the very front of the first file cabinet drawer, you know-- like a normal person might do. I even shocked myself as I pulled out the long ago forgotten about blue folder, containing our marriage certificate, and, yup, the title to the Cruiser. Armed with that document and a blank check, I set out on my little adventure.

"Do you want to be called before a deal is done?" I asked my wife over breakfast.

She thought about that for a minute.

"Yes."

See, on Friday night, my wife and I threw our swords down in the sand and we did what lots of normal couples do when emotions run high: we had a fight. It was a fight about cars, and about rationales, and about equity, and about sentimentality, and about history, and about, well, everything. You know how fights get-- it starts about one thing and then, if you're not careful, it escalates and it gets, well, metastatic.

Finally, after the yelling had subsided, it was agreed that I would go to the Volvo dealership and see what they were willing to give us for the Cruiser, and what they had on the lot that we could afford. Which wasn't much.

Yesterday, Zen showed me a 2002 Volvo S-40, the smallest Volvo of that vintage. Metallic Bamboo Green. 60,800 miles. He told me the "bottom-line sale price."

"That doesn't impress me at all," I said, pulling out my phone and showing him the Kelley Blue Book retail value for a 2002 S-40 with that mileage. When he said they would give me $2,200 for the P.T. Cruiser, I said, "Well, I guess there isn't anything to talk to you about."

45 minutes later, they gave me $3,500 for the Cruiser, and dropped the price of the Volvo by $600. And I signed and gave them a check for the difference. And now I have a tight, reliable, well-made car. A car to drive until the goddamn wheels fall off.

I feel a little strange about owning a "luxury car." I mean, it's an eight-year-old, small luxury car. But it's swathed in sumptuous cow-ass, there's fake wood everywhere-- it has enough airbags to cushion both my balls in the event of an accident-- there are ass-warmers and stability control and, well, I'm not really an ass-warmer kind of guy.

But I guess I am now. Because, as a wise woman once said, "You are what you own."

If you had told me two days ago that I would be a Volvo owner today, I would have told you to go suck a Swedish dick. But life's funny, and what was unbelievable on Thursday is a reality on Saturday. But, though a couple thousand dollars poorer than we were on Thursday, we're pretty much where we were before-- with only one car payment and with a somewhat aged 2nd car. But a damn good one. With a turbo.

Mmmmm.

"That's definitely a married man's car," my mother said, looking at it fondly. She really loves it. I've never had a car that my mother's liked before-- and I've had, um, a lot of cars. I suppose I'm really growing up, now that I have a car my mother approves of. Hell, she even loves my wife-- which is a lot more than I can say for my unfortunate exes.

I don't know if it's a married man's car or not, and I don't really care. I do like it, though. And I think I'm going to name it "Bjorn" with the diagonal slash through the "o."

Thanks, Zen.

Thanks, Mrs. Apron.

Thanks, Dad.

Welcome, Bjorn.