My Beetle & Me

I love my car. If you know me well, you know that. It was a college graduation gift that I nearly worshipped from the start. Cute, perky, purple, a lot of get up and go. I thought it defined me pretty well.
At the start, we were a good team for the long drives between OC and Valencia. It flipped easily through its 6CD changer while we sat in traffic on the 405, memorizing lyrics to the Black Crows and Celine Dion alike. I washed it every weekend, lovingly polishing every surface. When I was spending nearly every waking moment with my first little boy, it provided a backseat safe haven and with flashing headlights, gave entertainment and smiles.
Later, it happily chugged across the country with Dave and I, listening sagely as we laughed, shared our deepest thoughts, and built the foundation for the relationship we have now. At a roadside stop in Utah, I'm sure it felt proud to watch me leap around like a mountain goat while Dave trailed nervously behind. It saw me through med school, mostly hunkered down in a freezing underground garage while I shunned it for the convenience of bus travel, but bearing no grudge, it would purr to life to carry me to the grocery store, the mall, or out with friends. It stoically sat out under sun and stars while I worked my 30 hour residency shifts, waking, rain or shine, to take me back to the cozy repose of my bed. And in the last few months it has had the opportunity to provide conveyance to a new generation. Nathan looks happily out the window as the scenery rolls by.
A few days ago, it tried to kill me. There I was, on my way home from working all night when all the dashboard indicator lights started to flash, the radio turned off, and the car simply stopped. Of course it did this at the only point along my route at which there was no shoulder to coast on to. The point just around a curve where two lanes merge and commuters go 60mph in an area meant for 35, trying to pass each other and gain that extra 10 feet before the red light just ahead.
There was a lot of squealing of brakes and tires, and honking, as if I was somehow unaware that I was sitting in traffic, terrified, with my hazards on, praying one of those aggressive yahoos didn't kill me. If only they alerted me to this fact, I would just move my car out of the way. Mmmm hmmmm. One little problem . . .
Over the 2 days it took to diagnose the problem, Dave and I discussed with mounting anxiety the likely catastrophic nature of the issue and expense to fix, and even discussed a new car. I was torn. After all, who doesn't want something new and shiny? It had tried to kill me and the sin of doing such a thing with Nate in the car would have been unforgivable. But, it would have truly been the ending of an era for me. I used to say my grandkids would use the frame as a playground after the car finally gave up, and a little bit of that early awe and love still resonates in my heart.
It's a 2-door. An impractical family car. But it's still cute and perky and fun and young and I still want those things to define me even if "me" has changed.