Because I
hot glue-gunned an anarchist Barbie to the hood of my first car—a $500 Honda
Prelude---and could start it with the end of a spoon, I should probably
consider everything that’s come since an upgrade. But I don’t. Because I judge
a car not by its safety, drivability or current inspection, but by its cover.
It has to be cool.
But would my keen judgment hold up when the
rubber hit the road? I was afraid that it would not. So, when Prudence, my beloved
VW Beetle bit the dust and my mother-in-law, an angel of mercy (AKA the only
grandparent with enough cash at the ready to bail out an errant child--clearly
not the one related to me) gave us money to buy a new car, I forked over her
$3K to buy a Mercedes Benz station wagon.
On the lot, I’d admired the Mercedes,
the way you would admire a woman who can casually rock a fur coat and a tiara.
My husband had researched cars in the vicinity with the devotion of a lawyer
studying for the bar, so when he said he’d found the best bang for our buck I
believed him. I knew I was likely to choose a car based on its color. I was
hoping for something red. I decided to trust the motor head.
As the silver Mercedes purred down
the road during the test drive, I felt like I was trying on a glass slipper and
I was shocked to find that it fit. “Well hello, Priscilla,” I heard myself say.
“Miss Priss!” said my husband. “Perfect. Just like you. High class and high
maintenance.” Who me? I thought. This was
the kind of luxury mobile to make customized picnic baskets with real silver
and glass stemware just to keep the spare tire company. Maybe, I thought, it
was time for me to step it up. “Yes,” I said.
But when I got Prissy home, I crashed---
mentally. “My God, what have I done?” I felt nauseous, the kind of nauseous
that comes with gaining 3,500 lbs. of European metal. Looking at the sleek,
upscale Mercedes from our junky paint peeling front porch made me feel as if a
younger, thinner, richer stepsister had just moved in.
“It’s just not me,” I wailed
to my husband. “It’s so big! I feel like I’m driving a houseboat!” “OK. Let me
get this straight,” he said back. “‘My Mercedes Benz just isn’t me.’ Wow.
Somebody has real first world problems!” And then he took out the measuring
tape to prove that Prissy’s only 2 feet, 3 inches longer than compact, adorable
Prudence. Still, that 27 inches felt more like a full grown man than a kind of long
baby.
Since he didn’t get it, I decided
to talk to more sophisticated people. People who would understand my terror of driving
around like a rich, uptight, conservative, suburban mom. My girlfriends. They howled
with sympathy. One offered to launch a Kickstarter campaign to have naked girls
and metal bands airbrushed on the side. Another said I’d better order some
radical campaign bumper stickers, stat. Even my therapist friend suggested not
that I grow up and get over it, but that I start socking away money to have it
painted cherry red.
While I’ve appreciated their ideas,
I’ve also begun to entertain the notion that I’m suffering from a deeper ailment
than the make and model of my car. Listening with heartfelt attention to people
with real problems helps. Being grateful that I have a driver’s license and a
car that I can mostly afford to put gas in helps. Loading my son and his
friends and a few small motor boats and some livestock into the back while they
befriend the city from the rear-facing backseat helps. But mostly, being forced
to acknowledge that my car doesn’t define me anymore than my wardrobe or bank
account, reminds me that I can’t judge other people by their cars or their
clothes or their bank accounts either. And that is good. Still, I hope to learn
my next life lessons from the front seat of a two-door flame-red Challenger,
racing stripes optional.
