There is something liberating about driving an old car.
First, there is the freedom from debt. And in these “tough economic times,” who doesn’t love that?
Then there is the freedom from surprises. I know every knock and ping, every creak and moan my old Caravan makes. I know where my blind spots are and how to look into the side view mirror that cracked the first time I backed into the garage so that I get the best view. I know, too, when there is something truly wrong with my car and when it’s okay to just turn the radio up a little louder.
There is also the freedom from worry. I drive on ice and snow, zip into tight parking spaces, I even let my daughter’s friend drive my car when her permit was less than a month old, because, quite frankly, I don’t care. One more ding, one more dent, one more cracked mirror isn’t going to ruin my day. I’m beyond that; way beyond. This past fall, my 92- year-old neighbor backed into my car while my husband was behind the wheel.. “It’s okay,” I heard my husband say as the two bent to inspect the damage, “it’s an old car. Don’t worry about it.”
That’s not to say I don’t like my car. I do; I like it a lot and when it finally goes, I’m sure it will be like a death in the family. But, for now, I’m just going to sit back and enjoy the ride.
photo credits: "Trusty Rusty" by Amelia Lin
