My first car was doomed from the day I saw it in the parking lot.
I looked past the practical choices – the Fiesta’s and the Fusion’s, and right to the Mustangs. There was one; purple and shiny, hopefully fast. I didn’t know the important things about cars, like how to fill the tires with air or change the windshield washer fluid, but I knew a good looking one when I saw it.
I didn’t need four doors or front-wheel drive.This car could get me through my first Manitoba winter. It was the biggest purchase I’d ever made and the dealer barely had to open his mouth. I was the perfect buyer: alone, naive, and fresh out of university with large amounts of student debt. What was another $40,000 on that total? I was sold. High interest and a seven-year contract on a reporter's salary was a small sacrifice.
It was mine.
I nicknamed it Cherry. We went through a lot together in a few months – a handful of red lights, a stop sign and a couple of medians. She was the only forever present witness to my horrible driving skills, and she accepted it in silence. I thought the median would stop her, but a few uncomfortably loud scraping noises later and it was like it had never happened.
On she went. The red lights were smoother hiccups. We sailed through our share of intersections, my only real concern flashing lights in the rearview mirror. Somehow, we always managed to get where we were going without an unplanned hospital trip.
That car gave me independence. It was the ultimate freedom for someone who had spent the past four years of university taking public transit to my destinations. I didn’t have to wait to go somewhere or deal with delays, I chose when we left. And, best of all, I could go anywhere. If I wanted to pack up and drive two and a half hours to Costco in Winnipeg for their free samples, I could (and did many times).
It was also a spot I could de-stress.The space between those two doors and a 30-minute drive to and from work was all the room I needed to scream the lyrics to a song that fit my mood that day. Hard day in the office? I choked out “Had a bad day” all the way home. An evening where anything seemed possible? “I’m walking on sunshine” and the two windows down, fresh air blowing in was all I needed.
You could say that car heard and saw the ugliest parts of me.
Her tinted windows gave me the privacy I needed to let loose my inner pig. We scaled dozens of fast food drive-thrus and I inhaled hundreds of Nutella sandwiches in the drivers seat. I ate the majority of them, but she got the crumbs. I probably consumed more calories in there then in the kitchen, greasy hands gripping the steering wheel after another unnecessary stop at Dairy Queen.The dark windows hid my face as I gobbled down my bacon cheeseburgers and also my tears when a five-year relationship ended and the excitement when another one started.
Sitting in that drivers seat, I experienced it all.
I wanted to keep it for the next 10 years at least. We’d grow old together, her rusty, me wrinkly.
But, life had other plans.
I was driving down the highway one morning, about 10 months into the finance, an iced coffee from McDonalds in the cupholder and a half-eaten burger on the seat. There was a thud and a jarring stop, I never even saw the deer that we hit. The burger was flung dramatically onto the floor of the car, a casualty of the accident. Smoke billowed from the hood, and hairs from the deceased deer were plastered to the front grill; the only clue as to what had transpired.
Just like that, my purple, not-so-shiny car was a total write-off. I watched it get towed away, sad because we’d shared a lot of meals together, and knowing I would probably never buy a luxury like that again.
Now, I’m back in the city taking public transportation everywhere. What’s left of the car is probably somewhere in a junkyard.
The songs I sang, tears I shed and pounds I put on behind the wheel – the fond memories.
I looked past the practical choices – the Fiesta’s and the Fusion’s, and right to the Mustangs. There was one; purple and shiny, hopefully fast. I didn’t know the important things about cars, like how to fill the tires with air or change the windshield washer fluid, but I knew a good looking one when I saw it.
I didn’t need four doors or front-wheel drive.This car could get me through my first Manitoba winter. It was the biggest purchase I’d ever made and the dealer barely had to open his mouth. I was the perfect buyer: alone, naive, and fresh out of university with large amounts of student debt. What was another $40,000 on that total? I was sold. High interest and a seven-year contract on a reporter's salary was a small sacrifice.
It was mine.
I nicknamed it Cherry. We went through a lot together in a few months – a handful of red lights, a stop sign and a couple of medians. She was the only forever present witness to my horrible driving skills, and she accepted it in silence. I thought the median would stop her, but a few uncomfortably loud scraping noises later and it was like it had never happened.
On she went. The red lights were smoother hiccups. We sailed through our share of intersections, my only real concern flashing lights in the rearview mirror. Somehow, we always managed to get where we were going without an unplanned hospital trip.
That car gave me independence. It was the ultimate freedom for someone who had spent the past four years of university taking public transit to my destinations. I didn’t have to wait to go somewhere or deal with delays, I chose when we left. And, best of all, I could go anywhere. If I wanted to pack up and drive two and a half hours to Costco in Winnipeg for their free samples, I could (and did many times).
It was also a spot I could de-stress.The space between those two doors and a 30-minute drive to and from work was all the room I needed to scream the lyrics to a song that fit my mood that day. Hard day in the office? I choked out “Had a bad day” all the way home. An evening where anything seemed possible? “I’m walking on sunshine” and the two windows down, fresh air blowing in was all I needed.
You could say that car heard and saw the ugliest parts of me.
Her tinted windows gave me the privacy I needed to let loose my inner pig. We scaled dozens of fast food drive-thrus and I inhaled hundreds of Nutella sandwiches in the drivers seat. I ate the majority of them, but she got the crumbs. I probably consumed more calories in there then in the kitchen, greasy hands gripping the steering wheel after another unnecessary stop at Dairy Queen.The dark windows hid my face as I gobbled down my bacon cheeseburgers and also my tears when a five-year relationship ended and the excitement when another one started.
Sitting in that drivers seat, I experienced it all.
I wanted to keep it for the next 10 years at least. We’d grow old together, her rusty, me wrinkly.
But, life had other plans.
I was driving down the highway one morning, about 10 months into the finance, an iced coffee from McDonalds in the cupholder and a half-eaten burger on the seat. There was a thud and a jarring stop, I never even saw the deer that we hit. The burger was flung dramatically onto the floor of the car, a casualty of the accident. Smoke billowed from the hood, and hairs from the deceased deer were plastered to the front grill; the only clue as to what had transpired.
Just like that, my purple, not-so-shiny car was a total write-off. I watched it get towed away, sad because we’d shared a lot of meals together, and knowing I would probably never buy a luxury like that again.
Now, I’m back in the city taking public transportation everywhere. What’s left of the car is probably somewhere in a junkyard.
The songs I sang, tears I shed and pounds I put on behind the wheel – the fond memories.