Yes. I'm talking about the car. My car. She came into my life when I was 16, a beautiful 1999 V6 Mustang whose green paint job was so dark, everyone considered it to be black. The growl of her engine is unique, distinct in it's confidence and strength. She might be an efficient pony with her six cylinders compared to her higher-end Mustang brethren, but that doesn't mean she can't be fierce. To me, she is beautiful. She is perfect.
I don't know of anyone else my age who can say they are still driving their first car, but she and I are definitely still taking to the road together. The years haven't been so kind to her; her paint job is clouded and starting to discolor, her headlights have fogged up, and besides the extra nicks and scratches there is an unseemly hole in her front bumper from my first week driving that was hastily covered up by a sticker that has long since given way to expose the whole again. There are spots around the grill and bumper where the paint has faded away completely. That's probably what most people see when they look at her, but those things I don't really notice. She still purrs.
Most girls and young women would consider their bedroom to be their sanctuary, the place where they can slam the door, embrace a frilly pillow and bawl their eyes out. Or where they can let their mascara run as they scream and flail and scribble their rage in their journal, or even a place where they can whisper their deepest secrets to the walls and feel comforted that they will not be judged and mocked. Basically a place where they can be themselves, expose the the deep raw innards of their self and be safe. It would definitely consider that place my car.
I don't know how many times I've sat in front of my parents' house or my apartment, gripping the steering wheel and weeping, or how many times I've pounded the ceiling in excited disbelief. When I opened my college acceptance letter, I was sitting in that front seat. I remember the tightness of the seat belt across my heaving chest while driving to my wedding, and the realization of it hitting me all at once. And when that marriage fell apart around me, and I looked into his dull blue eyes and saw everything, my car was there to whisk me away and take me back home.
She has never failed me, and I've done my best to show her the same courtesy. My car has even saved my life a few times, and I know if I had been in a different vehicle, behind a different wheel, I'd be either marred or dead.
I know it probably sounds crazy, talking about a car like it was a human or a dog, speaking with fondness and affection. To some people my car is nothing more than an aged hunk of fiberglass and metal, a method of transportation and nothing more. Hey, whatever floats their boats. What floats my boat is knowing that this relationship has been an integral part of my young life. This mustang was the conduit of my adulthood, my means of passage through this life. She has done more than get me from Point A to Point B a hundred thousand times; she has given me freedom, sanctuary, solace, peace of mind, comfort... the list goes on for awhile.
Point is I recognize this car and it's significance in my life. Honestly my own husband did less for me than my mustang (and regardless of my relationship with my car, that's pretty sad to be outdone by a Ford), and I can't help but appreciate all that I've experienced and enjoyed because of it. I dread the day, far far away in the future, when me and her have to part ways. Not because I fear being without a means of transportation, because I will have to say goodbye to a very dear friend.
I can only hope that I can be as good of a friend to others as my car has been to me. If only human beings could be so loyal, dependable, and safe.
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