Does My Car Look Good With My 9 to 5? (Or does it just make me look fat?)

I have never been one to consider a car a tool, which is likely why I have now been brought to tears three times as I get my little Cabriolet ready to sell. You see, I’ve bought a Jeep. Not just a Jeep, really, like one of those four seaters, no storage space, over 20 miles to the gallon. No, I’ve bought a Jeep Grand Cherokee, a car many people actually refer to as an SUV.

The Cabriolet was always a personality statement, a shaper of character — quirky, you could say, and the color of my cat. It (the car, not the cat) has holes in all the wrong places — namely the roof and the dashboard, but also on the left side of the drivers seat, under the seat cover, where the metal bar pokes through and I use it to massage a clutch-weary hamstring. To lock the seats into position after you’ve adjusted them, you have to throw your upper back into it. When I first got the car, the previous owner told me to throw my lower back into it, but over time, I discovered a better method.

You see, I do know all the nooks and crannies of this car, like a nostalgic writer always knows her old house, or the depths of her psyche. I am certain that my little Cabriolet — the Debacle, as it was so christened, three years into its tenure — is an extension of my psyche. I can tell you not only what has broken, but when it was replaced, and how much it cost. When the Debacle began exploding oil sometime toward the end of Thanksgiving weekend, I knew the cause was a broken O-ring, much to the dismay of the several boys who helped me inspect the gushing oil valve. I feel this car. It grumbles and putts all the time, yet I can hear even the faintest of foreign noises when they appear.

It whines sweetly. When I picked it up today to clean it out, it felt right. Like I hadn’t missed it for a second. Its smooth shift from first to second, the squishy brakes waiting to be repaired, and a familiar smell of rotting rain mixed with old coffee (there were never cupholders, so I often spilled). The wires in the dashboard, jutting from the whole where the stereo was before some young thieves stole it, they twittered at me, as I rounded the corner and rolled down the hill, soft on the fragile brakes. A shiny red Cabriolet, of the same vintage, rolled up the street and passed me. The driver and I exchanged smiles. These small moments will soon be gone; I will no longer be part of a secret automobile sorority. In fact, those VW drivers will probably now curse my new car. They’ll likely call it an SUV.

The purr of my car reached to my very bones, this afternoon, and tears slid down my cheeks more than once. I looked up to the right, and recited math facts in my head, as I often do in wrenching situations. The Debacle holds six years of me inside its moldy interior, and I have given it up for a Jeep. I think this is what it must be like to drop your longtime lover for one that is richer, yet vapid and cruel. I feel as though I have betrayed my business partner. And for what? It is nothing to me but a hunk of black metal that I haven’t been able to use yet for the tool it is.

I have justified the Jeep as a tool. I abhor the character it might read into me. That others might read into me. Yuppie, one friend said. Another’s knee-jerk reaction, “Well you certainly aren’t going to park it in my parking lot.” Buying and selling large possessions is always a “transition” and emblematic of a larger shift. Your first car, your first house, your first portfolio. I resent that this is so. I do not want this purchase and sale to MEAN anything — I want it to purely be a function of needing a functional vehicle.

Imagine, though, just for a moment, this car were a symbol of what I am becoming. Does it look better with my REI fleece and tent? Or does it compliment my Banana Republic slacks and 9 to 5 job? The Debacle compliments my saggy jeans and quirky glasses. It matches my thrift store earrings. It has a motor that my mechanic proudly tells me will last forever. So, if this is the case, if the Cabriolet can survive so many years, then when did things change for me? When did “functional” come to simply mean “comfortable”?

Here is what the Cabriolet did do to me, for a long time. It caused me to avoid all rush hours and Friday exoduses to Tahoe, for fear of it overheating. When we did go, we carried coolant and distilled water, along with a tool box. I listened for every variation in hum and purr. My heart beat fast and my muscles were tense. I was neurotic, and I had no music.

The discomfort became too great. I no longer wanted the roof to spew water on me with every rain. I got tired of working with huge dollops of rainwater splattered across my sleeves and thighs. And I wanted music. I terribly wanted music.

I have some friends who wear their slum apartments like a badge — proud and stoned. They are pleased they live in the sketchy streets, and when they aren’t smoking pot, they’re smoking only American Spirits. Noam Chomsky’s words are on the tip of every tongue, and if they aren’t talking about the Zeitgeist film, they’re talking about Plan Colombia. They certainly would never pay more in rent when they could pay less.

The thing is, I used to love all that. I wore MY rollies like a badge, proud I only smoked what I toiled for, and I took them everywhere I needed to fit in. We wore big sunglasses and thrift store chic, driving to Mexico with the top down for a few bottles of pills.

Fashion used to serve a function in and of itself. That little car, my Debacle, was a quirk-filled entree into my world. A bit haphazard, bursting at its seems. When exactly did I stop caring? Where did the me go that bought thrift store couches, ate Mexican pills, and marched for free trade? A bit of personality is being retired with this car, I suspect. Perhaps it already parted, but the symbol of the transition is really what brings the tears. I wonder in what form will this small part of me be salvaged, and will it? I hope so, but until then, though I bike to work, my new car certainly does match my 9 to 5.