So last week, when the wheel sort-of-fell-off my honorable-but-aged vehicle for the sort-of-second time in recent months, and I was left waiting for a cab on a funky stretch of Broad at eleven-thirty at night as addle-eyed dudes in giant t-shirts slinked in and out of the darkness to offer me their services, and the next morning we came back to tow it, and somebody had sawed the catalytic converter out from underneath (apparently there's good money in those), and though the wheel was easy enough to fix, the muffler's now sitting in the trunk and the thing rumbles like a pack of Harleys and stinks like an oil fire—when all that happened, I decided it was time for a new car.
I got one today, and it's new new—a bright, shiny future-mobile. I've never had my own bright, shiny future-mobile, and I don't feel quite worthy—like I should brush my teeth extra vigorously in the morning and maybe use a lint brush before I get in.
But the kids will funk it up soon enough. Then it'll feel like mine.