End of the road

I sat in the sterile waiting room, trying to read the newspaper to keep my mind from thinking the worst. Mostly crappy, light rock music played softly overhead. An innocent, happy child, oblivious to what was going on around her, made enough noise to make me wish the crappy, light rock music was playing louder.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a man approached me with a serious look on his face.

This is what 170,000 miles looks like on the inside.

This is going to cost me a lot of money, I thought.

"We just had to give it some more oil," he said.

"OK, great," I said calmly, while imagining myself doing the backstroke Scrooge McDuck-style in a swimming pool filled with all the money I just saved.

"The only way to permanently fix this, though, is to replace the engine," he said.

As my money-filled pool quickly emptied, I asked him how much more time I had with my car. Could I make it to the end of the year?

"Yeah, that shouldn't be a problem," he said.

And, just like that, my blue, two-door Civic had a terminal diagnosis.

I'm not sentimental over many material possessions, but my visit to the mechanic got me thinking about how my car is one of the longest relationships I've ever had. We met in the middle of my senior year of high school. I remember picking it up and driving right over to a friend's house for what was to be first and only meeting of the Franklin Gentleman's Club. My car would have been a topic for discussion except for, um, the business at hand. (Although the use of our hands was forbidden during the meeting.)

The Civic now has almost 170,000 miles on it, plus a few dents and spots with chipped paint. It has been filled to the brim as it moved me into two apartments, one condo and one house. It can practically drive itself to the beach. It has a knack for finding nails to run over, one time even getting a razor blade stuck in the tire tread, which impressed the guy at the tire shop. It has made countless runs to the grocery store and been a personal recording studio to countless songs, mostly sung off-key.

A lady friend (or four) has sat in the passenger seat over the years. There were awkward conversations and a few laughs, and that was just when I was alone in the car before or after a date. But the Civic is also where, after driving home from my first date with Belle, I could not wipe the smile from my face and thought she might be The One.

Speaking of wiping, few things make me happier than a clean car. I've spent many a weekend afternoon lathering, rinsing and vacuuming. And then I wash my car. Granted, it almost always rains after I'm done, but for those glorious, 27 minutes of sunshine, my Civic looks all shiny and new.

Memories might be priceless, but if I can get a couple thousand dollars for my car when I turn it in, I'll take it. That money will not go toward purchasing my new car, though, because that is already in our garage. I'll soon be driving Belle's Corolla, a silver four-door with some pep and a small spoiler so named because it spoils the view out of your rearview mirror.

Belle, in turn, will get a new car. Something a little bigger, something with a bit more room, something that can fit -- gulp -- car seats.

This is going to cost me a lot of money, I think.