We had a good run. It seems like just yesterday that I drove you home from the dealership, all shiny and new, then to my former workplace, so I could rub it in my former co-workers’ faces that I now had a job that allowed me to buy pretty things (it’s not my fault – they could leave, too, if they wanted to!).
We taught two teenagers to drive (only one of whom actually tried to kill us all), spent a year with a 6-foot German girl folded into the back seat, and you cradled my grandmother while I drove her to the ER after she fell and hit her head.
And now, the guy at the repair shop has the nerve to say repairs will cost more than $2,000 and that you’re “not worth it.” Has he met you?
You patiently and without complaint allowed me to afix flowery brake light covers and magnetic flowers and peace signs to you (I didn’t know it would make you look like a Barbie car, I swear!); you seemed to enjoy it when softball players piled in, tossed their bags in the back, and asked you to take them all over the Northwest for tournaments.
You drove me to the urgent care while I sat in the driver’s seat, bent over in pain from kidney stones, and even went willingly to college with my daughter, when I needed to use her automatic transmission car, after I tore my Achilles and couldn’t use a clutch.
We’ve been together for 14 years, through thick and thin, happy and sad times, but it’s time to say good-bye, my friend. Because while I disagree with the mechanic’s assessment that you’re “not worth it,” my checkbook is squarely on his side. It’s nothing personal, but it’s time.