Saying goodbye to my old junker

When I write about “men” and “women” in my columns, obviously I’m generalizing. I realize that not all men or all women possess the qualities that I like to poke fun at, although I often hear from a lot of you who find humor in these life situations that are usually the norm, more times than not.

New cars, for men, must be like a new piece of jewelry for women. The first few months after the big purchase, they spend extra care shining it, carefully planning where to park when it’s not in use and bragging to everyone who will listen.

I’ve been driving my minivan for nearly 11 years. It has rust spots, the glove compartment is full of the various items that have fallen off and I didn’t know how to put back on, and the odometer reads 220,000. I didn’t see the necessity to do anything about a new vehicle until this one broke down beyond repair, although my boyfriend had a different view on it’s reliability and frankly, the condition it was in.

The interior looked worse than it could have because I like to eat breakfast on the way to work, and with every bite, bits and pieces of my granola bar would fall off onto the floor. It went well with the spilled coffee, notebooks, pens, pencils, duct tape, scissors, hand lotions, fast food wrappers and often times Dad’s pile of dirty laundry.

I haul anything and everything in the back, from tree limbs to tables to garage sale finds, and over the years chunks of carpeting have been poked out, along with several headliner wounds.

The van never failed me, and I’m certain it didn’t mind being lived in. After a new rattle developed and my boyfriend spent several Saturdays repairing things that wouldn’t fit into the glove compartment, it was decided to shop for a used “new” vehicle.

It didn’t take long to find one that we both agreed we be a good fit for me, and before I knew it, I was driving a car that was crumb-free and had an empty glove compartment. Sadly, I parked my good ole’ minivan.

When I pulled into the garage the next day a tennis ball was dangling from the ceiling and he was directing me in. The instructions were, when the ball hits the windshield I should stop so I didn’t accidentally bump the precious new shiny car. Then he suggested that I eat my granola bars at work, instead of in my car and that it might be a good idea to invest in a coffee cup with a lid that doesn’t spill. The more he talked about being careful and parking away from other vehicles, as he walked around the car running his hand over the hood, I began to get the feeling that the carefree days of junking up a vehicle were over.

The next morning I tried holding my granola bar out the window while taking bites, until I nearly ran into a telephone pole. It’s hard to teach old dogs new tricks.