On the highway of life...

...One must have a car. I had a car once. And this blog is dedicated to my Rhonda. It was nearly ten years ago when I first laid eyes on you, my future first car. I was 16 and too cool for a sensible sedan. I must admit, I wasn't happy about my parents' utter refusal to give into my wheedling for a sporty red convertible, and while it wasn't exactly love at first sight, I've grown to love you more than a person should possibly love an inanimate object. I remember the test drive, signaling what would be the start of my long bout with lead footitis, but you being the wonderfully unassuming car you are, were practically invisible on the road. The more I got to know you, the more appealing you became. Bringing you to school for the first time, I felt like the coolest kid on the block. With your moon roof, CD player, seating for four of my best friends, and those awesome automatic seat belts that have by now been phased out because of their hazardous nature, you were much more than a way from A to B. You were a fashion statement. Way too fashionable to have my younger brothers ever sit in the front seat. We made our way through the treacherous years of high school and even though you got a few dings and dents, you were still the hotness. Remember that jerk on the motorcycle that failed to grasp the fundamental concept of physics that two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time? I still can't believe he got out of having to pay for your tragically banged up front passenger door. And then there were those punks that smashed one of your windows to grab my stereo, CDs, and spare change. I can't believe the cops wouldn't charge them with anything, even though they were found with the stolen property. I think it was then that I decided officially to be a crusader for justice. Then there was the time that a tornado blew through the area and the basketball hoop fell on your roof. I guess we were pretty lucky that it missed the windshield and the moon roof. I'm still not sure how it managed to knock off my rear view mirror, though. Weird. From there, we made the journey to college; the first of many trips across the country. In the sleepless haze of No-Doz and M&M's, I'm amazed we didn't end up in a ditch, although we did come close. Way to go, dad. College together was awesome, even though gas prices started to creep up to the unimaginable range of $1.50. $1.50!!! It was then that I decided I couldn't afford to drive around as much. You were still as trusty as ever, starting on cold mornings, running on hot afternoons, and always getting me to where I needed to be. You even substituted as my apartment when I found myself locked out. Your door handles started to crack, but we worked around that. There were a few brushes with the law during college, but luckily we managed to talk ourselves out of that massive fine and into traffic school. What a farce that was. But at least I learned that you were not a time machine, and I shouldn't use you to make up for my perpetual tardiness. Point taken. When I left you to go to Spain, my spastic sister crashed you into a pole and your radio antenna mysteriously disappeared, and my brother got a fantastically overpriced $400 ticket driving you from Oklahoma to Utah (with expired tags, ouch), but when I came home after 19 months and put Linkin Park into the CD player, it was like no time had been lost between us. By the time we made it to law school, you were celebrating 200,000 miles. Must have been all those trips from Utah to Oklahoma and Provo to Cannonville. So many miles. So many memories. In Oregon, I really couldn't afford to drive, so you started spending more and more time alone in the parking lot. I'm really sorry about that. I'm even sorrier that when your distributor went out and you stopped running, we didn't get it fixed right away. And now, it's time for us to part ways. I feel like I'm losing a best friend. Thanks for the good times; you're going to be a tough act to follow. I feel sorry for my as yet unpurchased new car already.