January 16
hate the hair. hate hate hate.
If you were able to choose the method of your own demise, what would it be? Would it be love? Money? Passion? Sex? Would you pick power? Fame? Yesterday, I was afforded the rare opportunity to pick up my weapon, as it were, and point it at the world. You all know that I'm a fast driver. Fast and agressive. I was fast and agressive in the beater Volvo, and I'm even worse in the truck.
Two nights ago, Nick and I were heading from Home Depot, searching for kitchen flooring. (this is not to say there is no floor in the kitchen, that would be quite a feat, no? Floating around over the void and all?) We decided to drive past the Volkswagen dealer. Here's a (tiny) bit of backstory as to how and why we wound up there. Um. Well, more why than how, because obviously we DROVE there in my truck. It wasn't a church-calling worthy miracle, our being at a VW dealer. Oh, man. I'm all over the road today (premonition?! You tell me!) We went because I've been considering trading in the truck for a few months.
My reason for thinking about trading it in is a simple one: money. It's expensive to fuel (what with the gas prices creeping up again, and before Connecticut got to under a dollar. That makes me want to cry, just a little bit, if you must know the truth). It's expensive to insure. My monthly payments (a near constant bitch on this page) are outrageous. A large sack of money falling into my lap notwithstanding, every month ends in a dramatic monetary struggle for me, where I start writing checks I know I will bounce if cashed before a certain day, but have no choice because, well, you know, bills have to be paid.
So, I've been imagining myself behind other, less costly wheels. The problem being, of course, I hate most cars. I hate ALL minivans, and SUVs can blow my ass. I am even a snob amongst the truck family. Sure the Chevy Silverado can haul horses and boats and aircraft, but I think they're butt ugly. The Rangers and Tacomas are wee and shittily made. And afterall, why would I trade my beloved truck for another truck? Where's the sense in that?
I considered Maximas and Altimas. I calculated payments and tradein value. Still, I was lacking the love for the car to sell the idea to myself. I cruised around the Connecticut used car dealer webpages, looking at Taruses (never) and Neons (yeah, right) and Celicas (ugh). None of them called out, none of them shouted "Dana! It is I! I am the vehicle quirky and cool enough to woo you from Mister T!" until I hit the Volkswagen page.
I had not considered a VW, simply because I thought they were too expensive. I narrowed down what I wanted (a Jetta) and found out they were selling a bunch of them at the local dealer. That's how Nick and I found ourselves on the Montesi VW lot that night. The Jettas (Jetti?) were plentiful. I was satisfied that that was the car for me as I walked down the line. Until I got to the end. There, I saw it!
A 1999 GTI. Black. Sunroof. Automatic. I look at it. It checks me out. Really, it does. It says "Hey, baby. Want a ride?" I'm suprised and intrigued.
The next day I called in sick. Because I was SICK, okay? So, I called in sick, and I went over to Montesi. I figure I'll go, I'll see what they can do for a trade in, see if they can lower my payments. One hour later, I am behind the wheel. The first, very first thing I notice is the speedometer. The high speed on my Volvo was 120. The truck is the same. On the GTI? 160. "Does it...can it...GO 160?" I whisper. "Well, I don't know anyone who's taken it to 160, but I'm sure it can. It's pretty peppy."
I am halfway sold, right then. When I get onto the highway, and find myself going 80 without even the slightest engine complaint, I am other half sold.
I sign the paperwork after the testdrive, and the rest of the afternoon I wait by my phone to hear whether or not they've approved my loan. I'm not entirely convinced they will, nor am I entirely convinced I want it to be. To pass the time, I jabber on IM, and extol the virues of my maybe car to be to myself. It has lower mileage than the truck. It's got power doors and windows. It has a sunroof. Side airbags. Non-fuzzy seats. Some kind of alarm I hope to never use. All things considered, I'm getting the better deal, so again, why on earth would they make that kind of trade with me?
Long story short: they took the offer. I guess tomorrow, I'm picking up my new car. It goes 160 miles per hour. 160. Some people choose money or love to be the means by which their untimely end is met. I have chosen it to be behind the wheel of a car half the size and twice the power of my truck. Farewell, Mister T. You served me well. As for the rest of you, well, I'll see you all on the other side. You'll all be crying for lost love, lost money, found money, whatever. I'll be the one dissected by a pole.
(after some searching around online for a photograph to include, I came across the actual ad for my car. here it is.)
the other day - home - email - tomorrow