Mine
I name all my cars.
My first car, an adorable white Honda Civic with a little pop-open sunroof, was named the Rainbow Fish. I bought her the sping quarter of my freshman year of college. I was so freaking proud of that car; I had been saving up money from my various jobs in high school. I knew I wanted her the minute I saw her on the lot. My father, ever so practical, insisted I look around before I chose my car, but I could not be swayed. No other used car in Mansfield would do. We went back to the dealer immediately and swooped her up, out from under a woman who was browsing her.
Back at school, one of my college roommates, Christy, was obsessed with the Rainbow Fish cartoon, and somehow we thought that an appropriate name for the kicky little car. Tragically, the Rainbow Fish had a short life with me; later that same year I made a left turn in front of a pickup truck hauling a load of junk. She was unfixable. I was devastated.
But I knew I needed a replacement car. I felt guilty for ruining the first vehicle, so I promised myself not to be as picky in selecting the second car. My father played golf with a fellow who owned a used car lot, so we drove over and asked him to show us cars in my price range. He took us over immediately to a boxy, white Ford Escort. I didn't love her, but she had cruise control and air conditioning, neither of which I had in the Fish. "Let's take it," I said, and home came my second car, Chloe.
Throughout the rest of my college career, Chloe served me well. She ferried teammates to and from practices and tournaments. She trekked along to family vacations and summer internships. She successfully moved me and a first load of stuff to Washington after college.
Midway through my first year of post-college life, however, I started to get antsy. People around me were buying new cars. I had a newfound steady stream of income. It seemed reasonable. I started investigating options.
Then, one day, Chloe just couldn't take it anymore. I took her to the shop to see what could be done. Her alternator had given up; it would take more than $1,000 to fix her. I decided it was time to make the switch.
After researching numerous options and test driving several cars, I decided the new, perky Ford Focus was the way to go. Though I couldn't get all the features I wanted--like a sunroof--it seemed like it would be a good investment. Since I wanted a standard, I had to order it from the manufacturer, which took much longer than I initially wanted.
Finally, after almost two months of waiting, they called me. My car was ready. I showed up at the lot after dark, in the middle of a horrible thunderstorm. It didn't matter--I had a NEW CAR. Sitting in it, my nose filled with new car smell, I was on top of the world. As I drove home from the dealership, I decided to name him Ferdinand, or Ferd the Ford for short.
Since the car was a little more expensive than I had anticipated, I took out a five-year loan and slowly began paying him off, month by month. And today, after five long years, I finally signed and mailed my very last payment.
At last, he's mine, all mine.
My first car, an adorable white Honda Civic with a little pop-open sunroof, was named the Rainbow Fish. I bought her the sping quarter of my freshman year of college. I was so freaking proud of that car; I had been saving up money from my various jobs in high school. I knew I wanted her the minute I saw her on the lot. My father, ever so practical, insisted I look around before I chose my car, but I could not be swayed. No other used car in Mansfield would do. We went back to the dealer immediately and swooped her up, out from under a woman who was browsing her.
Back at school, one of my college roommates, Christy, was obsessed with the Rainbow Fish cartoon, and somehow we thought that an appropriate name for the kicky little car. Tragically, the Rainbow Fish had a short life with me; later that same year I made a left turn in front of a pickup truck hauling a load of junk. She was unfixable. I was devastated.
But I knew I needed a replacement car. I felt guilty for ruining the first vehicle, so I promised myself not to be as picky in selecting the second car. My father played golf with a fellow who owned a used car lot, so we drove over and asked him to show us cars in my price range. He took us over immediately to a boxy, white Ford Escort. I didn't love her, but she had cruise control and air conditioning, neither of which I had in the Fish. "Let's take it," I said, and home came my second car, Chloe.
Throughout the rest of my college career, Chloe served me well. She ferried teammates to and from practices and tournaments. She trekked along to family vacations and summer internships. She successfully moved me and a first load of stuff to Washington after college.
Midway through my first year of post-college life, however, I started to get antsy. People around me were buying new cars. I had a newfound steady stream of income. It seemed reasonable. I started investigating options.
Then, one day, Chloe just couldn't take it anymore. I took her to the shop to see what could be done. Her alternator had given up; it would take more than $1,000 to fix her. I decided it was time to make the switch.
After researching numerous options and test driving several cars, I decided the new, perky Ford Focus was the way to go. Though I couldn't get all the features I wanted--like a sunroof--it seemed like it would be a good investment. Since I wanted a standard, I had to order it from the manufacturer, which took much longer than I initially wanted.
Finally, after almost two months of waiting, they called me. My car was ready. I showed up at the lot after dark, in the middle of a horrible thunderstorm. It didn't matter--I had a NEW CAR. Sitting in it, my nose filled with new car smell, I was on top of the world. As I drove home from the dealership, I decided to name him Ferdinand, or Ferd the Ford for short.
Since the car was a little more expensive than I had anticipated, I took out a five-year loan and slowly began paying him off, month by month. And today, after five long years, I finally signed and mailed my very last payment.
At last, he's mine, all mine.
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