I love something dearly. This love is not really complicated and has no strings attached to it like most relationships. It is simple love, love that is pure and unadulterated. It is a kind of love that makes me sigh every time I think of her and thank God for allowing me to feel this sensation. It is one of the reasons I go home during breaks. Her beauty is unsurpassed and her gracefulness turns heads. I love my car.
It is a strange love story. I won her in a bet. If you know my parents at all, they really, really wanted me to do well in school so that I could get into a good college. It was my junior year and right before the SATs so they thought they needed to do something to motivate me. They said they would buy me a car if I made National Merit Finalist on my PSAT.
Every 16-year-old dreams of getting their own car -- or at least that was the case in southern California where everybody owned cars. Never have I been so motivated in my life. With foam in my mouth and my brain salivating at the thought of getting my own car, I studied like a demon. With that kind of motivation, I never really thought that I could fail. By March, we were shopping for a car.
I'll never forget the first time I ever saw her. It was at a car dealership in Irvine. My parents and I were shopping for a car, nothing really particular in mind. We were looking over various types and models when I noticed her. There she was, a white 1995 Ford Mustang. It was love at first sight.
After an incredible amount of whining, cajoling and groveling, I had her in my garage. The next few weeks were like a long dream that I never wanted to wake up from. The purring of its V8 engine was like beautiful angelic music. No church choir could make such a lovely sound. The beauty of the car made me weep. Forget the Mona Lisa or the statue of David. Even the fumes from the exhaust pipe were a heavenly smell. I washed, waxed and vacuumed my car on a daily basis. I took thousands of pictures of her and decorated my locker. I showed her off to my friends.
You may be wondering why I give my car human traits by referring to it as a "she." Well, I named my car. I call her "Maggie" for my own reasons. You can say that I named the car after my dead dog or after this girl I had an incredible crush on in high school. I thought that something I love that much should have at least a name.
I will never forget the first time I drove my car to school. The incredible sense of freedom was overwhelming. With my driver's license and this car, I could go anywhere I wanted to. At a whim, I could have driven to Mexico or to Las Vegas. I felt like I owned the road and felt in control of everything.
Some of the most heart-aching experiences were my numerous car accidents. Every time I would hit something with my car, or something hit me while I was driving, I would always check if the car was okay before even thinking to see if I had a bone protruding from my body or if I was covered in blood. The first time I was in an accident, I jumped out to see that my car was scratched. I bitched and cussed at the person who damaged my baby. I didn't care if it was my fault. I felt rage and anger like I've never felt before. I just wanted to break his head open and spit in his skull. If it wasn't for the police who stopped, I would have committed murder or hit him with my car jack at the least.
Here at Dartmouth, I miss my car dearly. Distance makes the heart grow fonder. I contemplated whether to bring my car here, but I decided against it. To have it stuck in a student parking lot miles away, covered in snow and ice most of the time?! No way. I would never let my car be exposed to harsh New Hampshire weather.
There is something about people's first car. No matter how ugly or old it may be, people set have a special place set in their hearts aside for their first cars. Right now, I just wish I had brought more pictures of my car with me.
