I have a new car.
It's a black, sleek, shiny, stylish
hatchback.
It also has four-doors, front-wheel
drive, gets great gas mileage, and was reasonably priced.
It's sporty AND sensible.
Spor-sible.
There are those in my family who say
pairing the terms “sporty” and “sensible” is an oxymoron, if
not an outright contradiction. They think I'm delusional.
The Little Prince, who is 16 years old
and male and therefore an expert on all things automotive, is not a
fan. I have been running new car suggestions by him since I first
started “theoretically” looking for a new car.
“If I were to get a new car, and
I'm not saying I'm going to, but if
I were, what about a Fiat? … Escalade? … Mini Cooper? …
Renegade? … Escape? … Charger?”
His answer never varied in content,
tone, or delivery. By now, I am so used to his monosyllabic, post
pubescent baritone response that I could hear his voice in his
texted reply to my text.
Me:“Signing the papers! Honda
Civic Hatchback. It's sporty. And sensible!”
Little
Prince: “No.”
But my
Mom-enhanced voice recognition software picked that up as
“Nnnnnnnnno,” revealing all the underlying apathy and disinterest
reserved for any vehicle short of a V-8 or Miata.
The Little Princess, who is 19 and
therefore an expert on all things, is not a fan. She still has not
forgiven me for allowing her father to sell the ginormous,
rattle-trap, rust-red, manual transmission, 1994 Dodge Ram 1500 pickup she
learned to drive in. Nothing I picked out – short of a Ford Raptor
– would have pleased her (and then, only after I gave it to her).
Me: “It's a Honda Civic Hatchback!
It's sporty! And sensible!”
Little Princess: “It's the world's
smallest car. There's no room for stuff.”
Pass that through any Mom-translation program and you get: “There's no room for MY stuff.”
The King, who has been my husband for
25 years and is therefore an expert on staying married, did not say
anything.
He didn't have to. Thanks to our
marriage-telepathy, I could tell that he was mentally calculating how
long it would take me to break one of my New Car-mandments:
- Thou Shall Not eat in the new car.
- Thou Shall Not drink anything besides water in the new car – and then only from a container that can be securely resealed.
- Thou Shall park in the furthest corner of the parking lot, away from all shopping carts and two-door vehicles.
- Thou Shall Not drive on gravel roads.
- Thou Shall Not allow gummy bears or crayons in the new car.
The longest I've followed these rules
prior to this car? One week. The shortest? Thirty minutes. (The Vue
never lost that new-fry smell.)
 |
| I've gotten in, and I can't get out. |
I know it's only a matter of time
before life – and my bad habits – cause me to slip up. Once you
lose that first french fry between the seats, get that first door
ding, or find a puddle of melted crayon and gummy bear in a door
handle, your New Car (!) is just your (new) car.
But until that happens, I am going to
enjoy the heck out of it. In fact, if you need me, you will most likely
find me out in the garage, sitting in my spor-sensible car.
Because part of that sporty look comes
from a lower-than-I'm-used-to seat-height, and I'm not as
spor-flexible as I used to be.
What are your "new car-mandments"? Could I market Car-mandments 1-3 as "The New Car Diet?"
