Life is now a Fiesta

I own a brand new car—and I made that dream come true all on my own.
I wrote the above sentence with some reluctance because I didn’t want to toot my own horn. But what the heck.
I deserved, 110 percent, the shiny new wheels filled with nitrogen, the new car smell, the voice recognition software, and the lickety split zoom zoom!
Heaven knows I’ve had my share of things in life that I don’t think I deserved. And something tells me I’ll be working on accepting acceptance of those crummy things for a long time to come.
But let’s get back to the car. That little gem is my self-gifting reward for working hard and keeping my accounts payable paid.
I will admit, though, that I played dodgeball umpteen times with the dream-stealing side of my conscious about buying a new vehicle. That inner dream-stealer has been known to shame me into denying myself some of life’s greatest pleasures—most of them much simpler and more affordable than a new car.
I think the dream-stealing shadow is up for counselling alongside accepting acceptance of crummy things.
But let’s back to the car. I have affectionately and—yes—somewhat geeky named her “Lola,” and she is the epitome of what I always imagined my personal entertainment chauffeur would be.
I talk, “Lola” listens, and I get hands-free technology. Voila.
After I bought “Lola” and showed her to my parents, my mother said, “I think that car was made for someone like you.” Yes, mother, it was.
I clearly remember as a kid wishing my future would include music that could be triggered by voice commands. In fact, I’m quite sure I invented the idea long before techno-genius and American business magnate Bill Gates got into the computer business.
Alas, I can’t prove it—sort of like that big fish I caught in 1979 that no one saw but me.
But let’s get back to the car. “Lola” came into the picture on the heels of a really great gal called “Old Buick,” whose time was limited by crusty rust and body parts that were starting to fall off.
“Old Buick” had had a motor replacement last fall and although she still ran the highway like a charmer, the choking and hesitant cough of her daily turnover was a sure predictor of a functional seizing stroke on an imminently cold and bitter January day.
I was driving “Old Buick” home after I’d given the nod to the car dealer to draw up the papers to buy “Lola,” and I was clouded over by a true and genuine sadness at the thought of passing “Old Buick” onto an unknown future as part of my trade-in.
I was going to miss the old girl.
“Old Buick” had carried my limping soul through those really crummy times of my life. She had been the “go-to” when I just needed to drive and cry. She had seen me through those times and got me safely home again.
I also was driving “Old Buick” when new visions of better times started to peak through. “Old Buick” drove me down the road to new chapters and a new beginning.
I felt really sad about letting her go.
It’s a funny thing to get so attached to an inanimate object like that. The wherefore and the why of it is a long case study in what makes me who I am. That education class is never ending.
No word of a lie, before I turned her in at the dealer, I told “Old Buick” out loud what she had meant to me and how much influence she had had on me, and I thanked her for carrying me through.
And then I let her go.
And when I drove “Lola” off the car lot that day, all I could think about was how much possibility lie ahead of me—and then I said out loud: “Play Bruce Springsteen.”
Glory days, indeed.

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