Farewell, Simon

Today was the worst day. I'm going to be real dramatic here. It wasn't really the worst day. But it was kind of the worst day. Almost the worst day. It felt like the worst day.

Let me start at the beginning.

The worst day was actually the week after our anniversary. We came home from Evan's family reunion, pulled in our driveway to empty our car, turned the car back on to put it in the garage and dot dot dot nothing. And I mean nothing. Except for all the lights and radio. Which isn't good because that means that the battery is working.

My dad came over and told me the battery cable was super corroded and needed to be replaced and probably wasn't getting enough juice from the battery to the engine blah blah blah car terms. So, the following day my brother towed my car from my house to the dealership where I purchased it. And then they told me that the battery and its cables were fine. And that actually it was the engine. You know, the heart of the car. Done. Donezo.

And this story could be five hundred miles long with the headache that ensued from the middle of July until literally today where we had to fight tooth and nail to get anyone from the dealership to pay attention to us or to respect us or help us figure out a solution.

We had two solutions and I hated both of them: Fix my car (whose name is Simon by the way and shall henceforth be called that) OR buy a new car. Lame and lamer. Because both options put us into a car loan (because wouldn't you know it, brand new engines are not cheap) and we need a car loan like we need another hole in our head (our one collective head that we have for the sake of that metaphor). [Now I'm doubting the chance of that being a metaphor. Let's pretend it is for a hot minute.]

Today we had to make a decision. Because are you aware of how annoying and embarrassing it is to borrow a car from your family for an extended period of time? Let me enlighten you: Very. We are a one-car family. It's been fine. We have a system. Except for there is no system when your one car decides to die a death at the worst possible time (which is always because there's no opportune time for car problems).

So today we made the decision to sell our car back to the dealership and buy a new car. And I cried.

Because Simon was my very first car that I picked out. He was really my third car but my parents picked out both of my previous two cars (I was very, very attached to the first one and they ripped it out of my hands and sold it and bought a new one while I was at work one day. Parents, never do that to your children.). And I picked him out. I test drove all the cars and found one that would be reliable and that was cute and that fit me.

I bought him and I made the payments and I took him on roadtrips and he was faithful and reliable. He drove me as a single 19-year-old girl who had no freaking clue what the heck was going on in the world into a 22-year-old engaged girl. He drove me to my wedding on the last day of my engagement and he drove Evan and I, a newly married couple, away from our wedding. He drove us to the hospital on March 22 as the last day as two and brought home the three of us five days later. He took us camping and put up with my driving and my inability to listen to music at any volume other than blaring. He proudly drove Evan around with that pink Hawaiian sticker that 19-year-old Larissa plastered on the back window (his tramp stamp I liked to call it) even though it mortified Evan.

He was a good car.

And today he gets to be somebody else's good car.

But he was my good car first and I will always adore Simon. Probably more than any other car I will ever own. Because sometimes I attach myself to inanimate objects and inappropriate amount. And I guess this is just one of those times.