We're purchasing a new car Saturday.
Something wild and flashy. Maybe a Honda Civic or an Accord. Definitely a sedan.
And we've already planned all the places we aren't going to drive it.
We're not going to take it to The City on Saturday.
Certainly not to work on Monday.
Oh, and our trip to Los Angeles? Forget about it.
We're not new car people. We like the comfort of an old car, one where scratches and dings don't mean much. A new car brings the anxiety of ownership -- the constant worry of chipped paint, a dinged bumper or a stolen hubcap.
I've been driving my current car, a 1992 Ford Tempo, since I was a junior in high school. It's been a good car. It's been a reliable car. Sure, the brakes are about to give out and the air conditioner has been broken for years, but that's just part of it's charm.
The worst thing about this new purchase is that my Tempo doesn't even see the trade-in coming.
We'll get in the car on Saturday and it'll be like "Oh, I wonder where we are going. Maybe the beach, or the mall? Maybe to visit family? I'll take you there and wait until you're ready to come home. I love you guys."
And then, we'll betray the one constant in my last seven years.
Maybe instead of anthropomorphizing my car and making it my best friend, I should give the Tempo a darker, more sinister side.
"Yeah, get in ... I've got no airbags. You're going to get hurt. And my trunk? That's mold, baby! You hear my engine sputtering? Oh, don't mind that. You'll know soon enough what's wrong."
Who am I kidding? That's not my beloved Tempo talking.
Really, it's not personal.
