Hi! As I was perusing blogland today, I realized that my own blog has a lovely password-protected post right on top. Welcoming, eh? Let’s fix that!
But, because work is crazy and I don’t have much time to devote to deep thinking, I’m going to go with one of the easier prompts: my first car. Because you know what? At almost 30 years old, I still HAVE my first car.
Here’s the thing. My parents weren’t very nice when it came to the whole give your only child everything she wants thing. Granted, they paid for things like my Catholic high school education, my undergraduate degree, and plenty of other necessities, when it came to the fun stuff, well, they weren’t very fun. I was told from the very beginning that I would have to save and buy my own car.
So I did. I babysat. I started working at a local Hallmark when I was 17 and kept right on working there during school breaks once I went away to college. I began working in my college’s freshman orientation office (a job that is, to this day, my most favorite job EVER), and kept tucking those pennies away.
Finally, the summer before my senior year in college, I cashed in my savings account and bought myself a 1997 Ford Taurus. It was 2002, making the car just about 5 years old. It had traveled an insanely small amount of miles and thus was a pretty good deal. Over the next couple years, I happily drove my family sedan back and forth to college. I named her Frances, which is a pretty stupid story on its own, having to do with Dirty Dancing and the fact that I always called my car Baby.
After college, I moved home and had a 60-mile commute to my first job. Frances safely got me to and fro. She was starting to rack up the miles, though, what with all the commuting and the driving back to college to see my then-boyfriend, later-douche. But, aside from the occasional tune-up and oil change, she was riding fine!
Fast forward to 2006. I’d moved out of the parent’s house, cutting down my commute. Frances was still carting me around town, but she was showing her age. The dome light wouldn’t turn off. She was a little shaky and loud. New tires were needed. But, she was still kicking.
Fast forward to 2009. I was moving to Detroit, eliminating my 30 mile commute entirely. Frances would have a much needed rest in a covered garage! But, while driving home, she decided she’d had enough. She stopped in the middle of a left turn lane about a mile from my house and refused to go further. AAA had to come tow her and I thought it was the end. But, if my parents were cheap with the car money before, they were overly generous with it now, as they had financed the majority of maintenance on Frances since I bought her. On that fateful Monday night, my dad and the Ford dealership brought her back to life. I moved to Detroit, where I thought she’d have a lovely retirement sitting in my garage, only coming out for a weekly ride to yoga or book club or a shopping trip in the suburbs.
Fast forward to 2011. I got a new job and a 60 mile commute. Frances tried to step up, but she just wasn’t having it. After a business trip to West Michigan, she made it clear she’d had enough. The sputtering was heart breaking. Though DD and I were newly engaged and thus, my car should now be his problem, I called my dad. He assured me I’d get home and told me what signs to watch for. When I did make it home, he took the car for another tune-up, which cost probably more than good ol’ Frances is worth.
And that brings us to today. Nine years later, she’s still with me. She’s seen me through college, two old boyfriends, one fiancee, two jobs, and five residences. Until a couple years ago, she could carry all of my worldy posessions. I’ve saved up enough money to buy a better car. But, I come from a family that drives their cars until they die, and Frances seems to have nine lives.