Four Thousand Pounds Of Steel

I'm in mourning.

Today, between 8 and twelve, a tow truck from the salvage yard will come and take away my blue car. The "Blue Car" was thus designated soon after I got it, in a slightly mocking manner, by a good friend of ours, because I believe he felt I didn't know what make or model it was, or even that it was an actual car. It's been the "Blue Car" ever since. And I love that car.

The BC came into our family when my now husband came to visit me when we were just dating. My car had died and I was driving a borrowed 1977 yellow honda civic that simply refused to die. There was no rear defrost, so the owner (my exhusband) had mounted (read: screwed) an 8-inch fan into the back deck that would come on every time the car was started. Pieces of the floor boards were missing somewhere under the front, and in the winter, that thing was so cold you had to dress warmly enough that you couldn't turn your head fully to shoulder check. Every frozen ridge in the road was felt as if you were driving on train tracks. There was a radio, sort of.
My fiance had the pleasure of riding in it with me ... once ... and then we went car shopping. We visited three car dealerships; drove four cars, I think, but once I drove that one, it was THAT CAR. I loved that car. I loved that car with a passion that MEN reserve for their cars.

It was sleek and shiny, in mint condition. While not new by any means, it was the newest vehicle I'd ever owned, and it was MINE! And better than that, my fiance had purchased it for me. Every single time I slid down into that car I felt good: not just because I was driving this lovely car that went ZOOM ZOOM, but because someone loved me enough to buy it for me! How damned cool was that? Seriously?

So away I'd go, zipping up and down the streets of S******, beaming with pride and happiness. There's a huge building there with mirrored glass walls. I'd go drive through the circular parking lot so I could see how I looked in my BC. In fairness, that wasn't my idea; the car salesmen taught me that years ago. What a great idea! But that car, simply by it's presence in my life, because someone bought it for me out of love and care for my well-being, improved my self-image immensely.

After I moved to California and my son got his drivers' license, the BC became his. I moved up to driving a jeep. A step up, I suppose, but my love affair with the BC never wavered. I nagged him about keeping it clean, although with the exception of the outside, it looked like a pigsty. Man, that bothered me. He never did treat it like it deserved. But a few weeks ago, on his way home from a soccer game, some yutz lost control on a freeway and slammed into him. The BC has been sitting in front of our house ever since, waiting while we learned the fate of our insurance claim. It looks obscene: the beautiful, sleek front end line so torn and mangled where it once was tapered and slim.

Yesterday we learned the other driver had no insurance, so we're making the claim through ours. Once we found this out, things started moving fast, and they called to set up an appointment to take our BC away. The salvage yard called to tell us they will tow it away this morning. And I immediately cried. It just seems so WRONG. To have it sitting in front of our house is one thing; I know it cannot be fixed, nor driven, ever again. But at least I can see it, and it's a tangible reminder of that time when someone came to me and said, "I will do this for you". Now, they're simply going to take it away and leave it in a dump! It hurts me so. For anyone who does NOT have borderline personality disorder, this makes no sense. It's an inanimate object, and it makes no sense. But for me, there's a wounding pain deep down that doesn't want to go away now that I know they're going to take it away to the "car garbage".

I keep telling my husband to figure out a way to keep it here. I recognize that the only way to do it is to buy it back and that's not practical since we need the cash to purchase a new car for the kid to drive. Right now he's driving mine, and I'm not driving anything. What a pain in the ass. But I cannot bear to have my BC taken away and never be seen again: that reminder of someone's love for me, despite the fact that the man who bought it lives right here in this house and shows his love for me every single day. It's just how I am.

He buys me lots of things, and everything he buys me gets treated the same way: with great respect and care. I can't help but do that: each one is treasured because they're from HIM. But that Blue Car was something special and now it's gone.

I cried yesterday when the salvage yard called, and I'll cry today. I'm going to leave before they come to pick it up because I cannot possibly sit here and watch them cart it away. The one saving grace is that it has to be carried on a flatbed because it will not roll. I figure it's the least that the Blue Car deserves.

RIP, Blue Car ~ I Loved You.
Meggy