Today, I got a new (to me) car. Above is Emerald (so dubbed by my dad, because of her coloring), which has been my car for the last 12 years. I learned to drive with Emerald; she’s seen me through snow storms, icy roads, several moves, various jobs, and lots of parallel parking. She’s the only car I’ve ever had. Before I had her, she was my family’s car, having been in the family since 1997. She was an excellent car: reliable, hard-working, trustworthy. Especially this past winter, when I had to do a lot of “come on baby, you can do it.” But last week, she let me know (via a detached muffler) that she was done, and today I traded in my girl for a new one. 🙁
Here’s the new gal, not sure what her name should be yet (Sapphire? Royal? Blueberry?).
It’s the same type of car, but cars have come a long way in 15 years. Comparing the driving experience of Emerald to this new one is like comparing a typewriter with a Macbook. I could feel and hear everything that Emerald was doing (for better or worse), like she and I were on this adventure together (“Eeeep!”, she’d say, “this is a tough turn.” or “Oooof, my joints are aching, just so you know.” or “FYI: This is a bumpy road.”). This new one feels like I’m floating aimlessly in a sea of marshmallows. Like she’s doing her job independently, and I’m just emailing her suggestions from the office next door.
As you can see, I get attached to things easily. I was the kid who was certain that my stuffed animals had personalities and souls (it’s still hard for my brain to convince my heart that they don’t). So moving on from Emerald is a mixture of emotions. Usually with stuff like this, I take a couple of days to grieve and process and memorialize, and then I move on, out of sight out of mind.
Aaaand, I’m still working on that mystery project, so here’s another tease!