I didn’t sleep well last night.
I felt tainted; a little dirty.
Because we spent yesterday afternoon at used car lots.
The ’99 Windstar minivan I’ve been driving for twelve years is nearing the end of its life. For reals this time. The Husband has resurrected it twice (as in rebuilding the engine and transmission), and it’s time for it to rest eternally in the big junkyard in the sky. We can manage (just barely) a monthly car loan payment now, and quite honestly I’m too damn cute to be driving an ancient, rusting van with a crack clear across the windshield and large patches of paint peeled off.
So we hit a few car lots. Test drove four small SUVs. What I really want is something that looks like a Ford Escape
or a Jeep Liberty
What we started the loan application process on, though, was a Mazda CX7. In beautiful condition, low mileage, perfect price. Too good to pass up.
Except it’s not what I want. And I so rarely (as in once in my entire life) have gotten to choose what car I drive, I want to do this right. So I’ll be calling the car lot tomorrow and cancelling the deal. And starting over.
I am THRILLED to have the luxury of even getting a decent vehicle. But I don’t want a car that makes me just a little sad every time I look at it. No longer do I haul all our kids and their friends all afternoon and evening long. Mostly it’ll just be me, groceries, and the various unusual items I schlep to work (enormous slabs of pink Styrofoam, for example. I have my reasons.). So I’m justified – I hope – in picking out something that’s exactly right for me.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget how long it took us to get to the point in our lives where we could manage a car loan. I’ll never take comfort for granted.
But by gosh, I think I deserve a car that makes me happy.