On Tuesday this week, my new all-electric Mini Cooper was loaded onto a transport trailer for its journey from southern California to Tacoma, Washington. As nearly as I can tell, my beloved 2007 BMW X3 was simultaneously driven up the ramp of a tow truck to start its voyage into the arms of a well-respected charity.
The excitement of a new car was overshadowed by the loss of my old one. My eyes filled with tears when my husband texted me a picture of my old SUV sitting atop the tow truck. The rational part of my brain knew that I should not invest thousands of repair dollars into a high-mileage, 13-year-old car, but the irrational tug of my heart could not stand to give it up. I felt somehow disloyal to my clunker, which had reliably carried me around for years.
And the truth is, I am not a new car person.
The portend of my clunker’s demise occurred last winter with the ominous signs of an imminent transmission failure. But Denial is my middle name, contrary to the intentions of my parents who named me at birth. Though I test-drove a gas-powered Mini Cooper and placed a fully refundable deposit on its all-electric cousin, I pretended a new car purchase moment would never arrive.
COVID-19 was just what I was looking for, at least in terms of a desperately sought-after delay. The Oxford, UK automotive plant shut down. An apologetic salesman kept in touch with me, assuring me that once production began again, my vehicle would be built in a matter of weeks. He had no idea that delay is denial’s bosom buddy. While I voiced disappointment with the setback, I was secretly filled with relief.
My X3 was far more mature and sensible about its prognosis than I. Mechanical failures, engine whistles, and frequent overheating became the norm. The car became undriveable, stubbornly and stoically signaling to me it was time to let go.
I finally said goodbye, sitting in the driver’s seat, thinking of happy forays to our cabin in the mountains, or securely navigating icy roads. My SUV carried its share of exuberant dogs, though my husband carefully removed all vestiges of dog hair from the carpet and canine snuffles from windows before its departure. I remembered hundreds of days driving to the office, the welcoming warmth of the driver’s seat like a cozy embrace.
Two days ago, my brilliant and accomplished all-electric brother drove me to the dealership. My attitude was noticeably better than arriving at the endodontist for a root canal but not by a significant margin. My new auto was parked in the showroom in resplendent glory, and the salesman enthusiastically waved me towards it with obvious pride. I pretended to be enamored with it, but the Mini seemed to know better. It reminded me of an expensive handbag in a designer boutique – something that vaguely-defined “other people” buy.
I restlessly finished the purchase paperwork and took a test drive. Despite myself, I giggled as I repeatedly removed my foot off the electric accelerator too early, stopping twenty feet before I intended to. The Mini hummed patiently at its fledging driver. My fancy little go-cart sped through the streets, quietly wooing me with its performance and handling. User-friendly technology for phone calls, navigation, and Audible were there for the asking.
My resistance softened with my new car’s perky persistence and pluck. I dreamed that my X3 was finding a home with a retired veteran who would bring it back to mechanical life in a way that I could not. The moment I had been waiting for – a sense that the world was unfolding in the way that it should – was once again upon me.