via We Heart It
So, I had planned to do a post this morning about the Victorian Ball I went to on Saturday. I was going to tell anecdotes about people I met, dresses I saw, and dances I danced. Instead, I spent the entire weekend inside, watching dvd's and staying dry (mostly), on account of Serenity, my car.
It's tough to describe the relationship I have with Serenity. Yes, she is named for the beat-up, broken down ship in Joss Whedon's Firefly, so if you're at all familiar with that seies, you already kow something about my car. For those who don't: Serenity is a '95 Chevy Cavalier with rust, a missing rearview mirror, 130,000 miles, and a constantly-on brake light. She's supposed to have automatic transmission, but I can feel her shifting at regular intervals. Her engine nearly overheats every single day on the 405. She does not like to go over 65, and she rattles and shakes at nearly any speed. She cost more to ship to California than she is probably worth.
The flip-side of that is that without her I go nowhere. She seems to listen to me when I give her pep talks: when her temperature gage is nearly at the H and we still have 7 more miles in stop-and-go traffic, I give her praise and encouragement, and watch the needle creep down a little. I can feel her moods in the pedals under my feet, and try to respond accordingly. I never yell at her, and tell her I'm going to retire her to that nice farm where cars go after they've lived a long life, to frolic with other cars.
I know that next month, much sooner than I intended, I will be shopping for a new (used) car. Serenity simply won't last much longer. I hope to find a nice dependable Corrola or a Beetle, that will run forever and not be rusting and peeling. But, there is a part of me that will miss Serenity, with her dinosaurs on the dashboard and constantly blinking floodlight indicator. Even when she makes me miss events I want to be at, she's got more soul than most cars, and she is my first. They say you never forget that.