I always wanted a Volvo. I started loving Volvo's in the 80's when they were boxy-shaped and looked so stable and safe. We purchased a Volvo wagon that was the color of a perfect cranberry at Thanksgiving with caramel-colored-leather interior. It was like a delicious-homemade cobbler on the cover of Martha Stewart Living.
The car came with features I never learned to use, yet I liked knowing they were there. The Volvo had tiny windshield wipers on the headlights. I couldn't locate a button with which to turn them on, but I believed when I needed them on a future rainy night, that the very button would magically appear. This miracle would happen because this car wanted to keep me safe.
What I fantasized about my dream car, turned out to be very similar to past relationships. This Volvo should have been left as a mediocre-one-night stand.
What I fantasized about my dream car, turned out to be very similar to past relationships. This Volvo should have been left as a mediocre-one-night stand.
Instead, I kept with it, certain it was the love of my life. I just had to have faith in its ability to morph into what I needed it to be and ignored its lack of reliability, instead, relying on its looks, slick extras, and uppity reputation.
I fell in love with the way we looked together, rather than the shame I felt making another call to AAA for a tow, and the heart palpitations I felt with weekly trips to the mechanic after receiving another repair bill.
I would see other people driving around town with the same make Volvo. They appeared calm and able to focus on their driving. Meanwhile, I was trying to drive with my head tilted perfectly away from the dashboard with a minimum of one eye closed to block my view of the check engine light glaring at me. I made a habit to slam the car door shut as hard as I could. I imagined the car might truly feel the physical pain and begin to understand my anger and hurt. In defiance, the car switched on another mysterious light, filling up the dashboard like it was Christmas.
I would see other people driving around town with the same make Volvo. They appeared calm and able to focus on their driving. Meanwhile, I was trying to drive with my head tilted perfectly away from the dashboard with a minimum of one eye closed to block my view of the check engine light glaring at me. I made a habit to slam the car door shut as hard as I could. I imagined the car might truly feel the physical pain and begin to understand my anger and hurt. In defiance, the car switched on another mysterious light, filling up the dashboard like it was Christmas.
Like in past relationships, I stayed too long. I stayed with the fantasy instead of heeding the flashing red warning lights screaming at me that I am no auto mechanic or shrink or brain surgeon that can change anyone’s or anything’s DNA. This car let me down, left me stranded, and stood me up. I could have changed my hair, lost weight, and read more books, but the results would have been the same and I would be left with a negative balance in my emotional and fiscal savings account.
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2 comments:
i feel yr break-up pain. my wagon is about to leave, as well. and i opted for some dumb-ass subaru. you know, because it's always good to have ALL WHEEL DRIVE in the SUMMER. wtf? anyhow, a toast to us, for being so dedicated. may we slip on a pair of painful high-heeled shoes and wear holes in the floor-boards of the next bastard auto.
I learned to drive a stick shift in my parent's Volvo. I actually liked it. Very cool car to have in the '70's. Unfortunately, my mother totalled it. Don't worry, she was okay and "it wasn't her fault." It never was - even though she totalled 3 cars.
Now my sister owns a Volvo and she misses her mini van. Go figure!
The thing that's weird about Volvos is that flesh color they came out with. Why would anyone want a flesh colored car? But lots of people bought them.
To summarize, I feel your pain.
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