The results are in: 38 miles to the gallon. And if you think I\’m kidding, it was actually more like 38.46 miles to the gallon. See, specificity implies fact.

But I don\’t need to imply, because it\’s true. All that coasting and gliding and driving slow paid off; my car gets hybrid-like mileage. In a way, it is a hybrid. Part car, part me, we work together in pursuit of efficiency.

I have to admit, I\’ve been musing on the possibility of getting a new car. A real hybrid would be nice, but there\’s a two-year waiting period to get one (demand>supply). And, let\’s be honest, I can\’t afford to buy a new car anyway.

But it sure would be nice to have a driver\’s side door handle. And a trunk that didn\’t collect rainwater, even when closed.

Sometimes I think a new car would make me a new man; crisp, clean, and watertight. A quietly purring silver Honda – four doors, no less – in my driveway would really bring me to a new level of personhood.

It\’s like this; the degree to which you\’ve made the transition to adulthood depends on how much of your life you could show to the people you work with. Example: I\’d feel pretty good about inviting my co-workers over to my house for a barbeque. It\’s not perfect, no, but we\’re working on it, and it\’s nothing to be ashamed of.

If, on the other hand, my boss\’s car broke down and he needed a ride home, even the walk to my car would be embarrassing.

\”This is you car?\” he would say.

\”Heh heh. Yeah,\” I\’d reply, before warning him about the smell and the cramped seating. And, in my ultimate moment of humiliation, asking him to reach over and open the driver\’s side door.

No. There is just no way. If his car broke down I would gladly wait with him until help came, but my car is off limits to co-workers.

So there you go. My transition to adulthood is yet unfinished. My home, my girlfriend, my family; all of those are safe for work. But my car is a secret only I can bear to know.

Still, there are other times when I think a new car would just be a weak front for who I really am. Within weeks it would dinged and dented. And before long something would break off. The signal lever, a windshield wiper, something.

I would try to keep it clean. I\’d try to get the oil changed regularly. But we all know I\’d just be trying to swim in someone else\’s flippers.

With the Turdcel, I can be myself. I can bump it into to things; no big deal, it\’s already dented. I can forget to change the oil; so what? I forgot to change the oil for the first four years I drove it.

And if that means getting in the passenger side door, and refusing to help out my co-workers in times of need, well, I can deal with that. Because this cars knows me, it doesn\’t care about my transition to adulthood. It doesn\’t want me to be crisper or cleaner, or watertight.

It just wants me to help it get 38 miles to the gallon.

And if we can keep doing that together, we\’ll never need anyone else.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, June 8th, 2004 at 6:46 am and is filed under Transportation. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.