You wouldn’t think buying a car would be that big of a deal. Well . . . yes, I get that it’s a big deal, a lengthy, awful, negotiative process that involves selling a portion of your soul in order to simply get a vehicle that you feel isn’t betraying your masculinity for gas mileage and killing your financially. But I’m not talking about the typical nightmare that is automotive purchasing.
It’s another one of those things that I have to do, but don’t want to do. Not because of the hassle, cost or confusion, though there is that. But it’s another big choice, another massive decision that further adds proof that my life is drastically and forever changed.
I know, I know, get over it, it’s only a car. …except it’s not.
If you are a family of any size larger than a threesome, you’re nodding your head as you read this. You can’t survive in a Honda Civic. Not even a Chevy Blazer. We live in the car. It’s where we pick up the kids; where the Christmas music plays as we look at Christmas lights; where we lay down my son when he fell out of a bounce house and has to go to the ER, both of us looking like we’ve walked out of tear gas in Beirut, with our shirts full of blood; where we saw movies at the drive-in theater as a treat so they can see how we saw movies as kids in the . . . well a few years ago.
It’s the vehicle I drove at 90mph to the hospital when Andrea started to take a turn for the worse.
Every car we’ve owned since I married her in 1993 has been a joint decision – and by that I mean she had an idea of what she wanted and I had to act like I argued and had an idea but in the end really agreed with her anyway. When our first was born we bought a Nissan Altima, a mid-sized car, the first year it was made, because we needed something more reliable. We’d had Hannah, so we needed something bigger, moving onto a Blazer. When we moved to Texas in that car, we realized that we needed room for soccer games, carpools, birthday parties . . . so we got the car we affectionately call the “sexy Sheboigan”.
Andrea picked her out. I’d actually never thought about something that big, that gas guzzling, that . . . perfect. Like so many other decisions we made together, she’d done all the research, talked about the ups and downs, tried out other versions of the car, even looked through pictures and comparison shopped. She went to the library and read old copies of Consumer Reports, just to check it all out.
Now, after more than a decade of having her, she has 205,000 miles. We lived in her. It sounds crazy, I know, but even the kids see it. Right there, driving down the road, it was the usual situation – Me driving, Andrea sitting there, in the passenger seat, smiling, riding along. The kids remember it the other way – them riding in the back, Andrea driving. Even now, I put my hand on that middle console and if I’m not paying attention I wait for her hand to set on top of mine. It’s a small, but definite pang that hits when I realize that it’s not coming, there’s no touch.
So December comes, after repairing the A/C, the transmission, the differential, the radiator, the bumper, the water pump and the catalytic converter. It’s so tempting to hold onto this miracle of modern-day machinery, but it’s not practical or realistic anymore.
And there it is, reality creeping into the damn picture again.
It’s not as big a change, not like moving into the new house or changing jobs or switching schools – all of which we’ve had to do this year. But I still have to make a choice and it’s obvious I’m doing it alone. Where Andrea just . . . knew, I knew we needed to buy something, just didn’t know what. Sure, I looked around, comparison shopped, hit Edmunds, Kelley, all the consumer sites. I checked reliability, value, depreciation, all of that, but I really did feel like I was blindly waving my arms around in the dark.
Sure, Abbi helped. She’s an amazing kid, and when I went back to the same mfg. I already had, not a Chevy like before, she was fine with it.
But I went in, hoping just to look at the car, and walked out last night with the keys in-hand. On the drive home it dawned on me that I’d made the decision and wasn’t positive I’d made the right one. The choice was good, the car is nice, the mileage low and the cost great. But I had to decide. There was no give and take, no negotiation with Andrea about whether we should get this or the other model. She didn’t get angry when I didn’t come home with the car because they wouldn’t come down on the price only to have the dealership call and cave in and give us the car. It was just a straight purchase.
The kids love the car, it’s new, it’s shiny, it’s like a dog hearing a squirrel.
But I realize what this really is. It’s another sign of moving on. I am happy for us on one hand, we’ve managed to find a way to get what we needed, nothing too much more, and move on. But it also means just that – we’ve moved on. It’s not like the dishes or cleaning or laundry, the daily necessities, it’s a pretty major decision and choice, and I made it. Without her there to help me. It’s not like I’m paralyzed and need the second opinion, I obviously can make the choices and had a lot of input in what we did.
But I didn’t want to. It’s another decision, another sign that she’s slipping away. It’s another day where I’ve ended up sitting here writing and seeing the pieces start to fade.
I am happy we have what we need, and sad that we lose what we want. I drove it around the neighborhood with the kids and put my arm in the middle console and when I got home I realized I didn’t wait for her hand to touch mine.
We gained a little peace of mind, but lost another memory.