Make Me Wanna Holler
I just realized my car is a beater. For some time I've thought that it's a middle of the road family sedan, not too showy but not a beater. After the transmission job ( -$2000) I've realized it is a beater and I'm embarrased.
'Why should I be embarrased?', I think to myself but I can't help it. I drive a beater.
When I first graduated from college I had a beater called Sputnik. Since it was by far the crappiest car in the parking lot I used to park it way out on its own. I'm not big on deception but the premium I put on anonymity or at least not having to answer questions (why is your car so P.O.S.?) is such that it's much easier to park far away and slink in and out.
But it's not just this "premium". I am embarrased over my beater and it frustrates me because it goes against every shred of me to focus entirely on superficial things like a car. I snicker at people who wear suits (I like adidas sweatshirts and jeans), why can't I snicker at the payroll clerk driving the 2002 expensive car? Maybe because all the groaning my '97 Taurus does when I try to motivate it leaves me wanting.
As much as The Mothership makes me want to do a James Brown "YEEEAAAAOOOOW!", I know I'll miss it when it's gone. Such is the nature of beaters. I miss Sputnik, the little 1983 Accord in which I took 3 foreign girls to the Grand Canyon one November. I miss my old beater laptop Alexander. It's funny how you can use nostalgia that way: think of the worst P.O.S. thing you owned and I'll bet you miss it. Not that you'd want it back but you miss it. Sigh, being human can never be simple.
10:54:34 PM 
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