I sold my car today. Because it’s so functional I never got attached to it the way I did with my other cars–the plucky little Honda with no air conditioning, the first Audi whose stereo had to be enjoyed through headphones. Those were the cars that saw me through high school, through Seattle and San Diego, and took me on my farewell tour of Elliott Smith on my 21st birthday. This last car was just a car.
Still, I’m utterly without vehicle now. It’s going to be harder to pull up roots at some point and move to Santa Fe, learn to curry horses, cut my hair short, become a dusty and honest girl who looks you straight in the eye. The Lad suggested that I might take the train when the time comes to leave him, but it has to be about autonomy. A car is integral to this plan.
The whole point of the last three years has been to settle down. Get my degree, get my career, get my fella, get my life in order, quit being the flakey one in my little fellowship of girlfriends. Selling my car is a big step: I’m stuck here now, in this city, with the people I know and the mistakes I will continue to make. I guess I gave up the option of running off with no consequences a long time ago, but this is the first time I’ve had to really think about it.
“It might be better if we don’t get married after all,” I told the Lad last night glumly, my head on our ridiculous table, missing my car. “I don’t think I deal with losing my options very well.”
So long, little horseless carriage. So long, Santa Fe.