I bought my very first brand new car just weeks after I turned 19. I'd been working hard for about a year and a half at my crappy little job saving up money, and 9/11 pushed interest rates into the ground. I found exactly the car for me, and committed to an indecent car payment for the next 5 years. It was a sporty little red number that made me feel like a princess, and I LOVED it. Then, one rainy morning about a year later, I totalled it on the way to school. Super. I mourned deeply for awhile, and - once the insurance was straightened out - bought another brand new red car (if God is merciful, I'll never have to drive a car of another color. I love red). I drove the hell out of that car, all over the place. It was our only car when Elvis and I first lived together, and we put thousands of miles on it together. Of course, each year or so it would spend an expensive week in the shop, but we loved that little red car like it was a member of the family. It was our "getaway" car after we got married. We drove it on our first vacation together after we were married: a weekend trip to Mississippi. We brought Henry home from the hospital in it.
Our dear friend Spongy (yes, we name our cars) died for the final time this week. I'd had her towed into the shop, and got the dreaded call on Tuesday morning: The estimate was $3500, and they hadn't even gotten to the major problem yet. With an exceptionally heavy heart, we made the decision to let Spongy go, and I had her towed back home where she's currently sitting and being slowly emptied of 10 years of accumulated junk. Sigh.
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