My Reatta has been my pride and joy for the entirety of the two years I’ve had it. Maybe that’s the problem.
I have enough pride. I don’t need any more. I’ll sell my the car, sell my pride, and keep the joy.
Nothing can take away from the joy I had with Frank.
It was my car, my freedom, my independence. Granted, I didn’t pay for most of the expenses involving it, but I had the illusion of self-reliance when I was behind the wheel. I’m not even a particularly good driver (thank you, ADD), but wandering down highway 20 going just a tad over, playing country music…it was delightful. I’m going to miss it.
Sitting way too close to the wheel in that grey leather driver’s seat, so comfortable it feels like a back massage, I still have to stretch a bit to reach the pedals. The radio crackling sometimes since Scott accidentally pulled out the antenna, but somehow rarely during my favorite songs and more often during NPR programs than on the country station. That bit of dirt that never comes out of the change container near the cigarette lighter. A beep whenever I go over 75, that overspeed alarm I set to make sure I don’t accidentally drift up and up til it’s past 90–the acceleration’s that good. Watching the mileage go up and up as I pay more attention to my driving habits. The grey snow, grey road, grey trees with grey ice crystals, grey sky: And yet it’s so bright my transition lenses darkened as if the sun shone. Smooth fields, glorious sun, trees both bare and covered in leaves. Few other cars on the road, on the good days at least. Just me and my Frank, usually with a set of directions I check obsessively. But roadtrips were something I could do on my own, an achievement I was always proud of. I once drove about 15 hours in one weekend! It was an accomplishment.
And as much as I do, it sometimes feels like I have very few accomplishments.
