Two days ago I drove a 2013 red Ford truck. It was beautiful. But we hated it. We bought it at the beginning of my latest demise.
It held so many bad memories. Between the gas, payment and insurance, it was another house payment. For something we didn’t love.
Thankfully my dad is a used car salesman. He has sold our truck and we are paying it off.
I call that progress.
As the daughter of a used car salesman, I’ve seen some hideous rides. He used to take me to high school in an old Volkswagen bus, complete with burlap curtains. I would hide in the back until the coast was clear.
In 1993 I got my first car. I loved that car. It was a 1971 dark green (my favorite color) Volkswagen Bug. My real dad bought that for me, thank God. I taught myself how to drive the stick the day I turned 16. And it only took me 3 months to get up the biggest hill in my town.
When I took my dad the truck, I knew my dad was loaning me a car to drive while we make some plans. So I couldn’t be picky. I am now the proud driver of a 1993 Volvo.
My dad’s quote- this is an oddball car for an oddball driver. (No offense to me, he’s not actually selling it to me. He knows he can make money off this beauty to the right person.)
My husband was worried about our kids. We live around uppity rich folks. No other 1990’s Volvos in our little town.
Quit worrying. The goal was to stop having car payments. And we are there! The kids will be fine.
My 7 year old is still crying over the truck, but he’s a little dramatic dude. But my oldest son is the oddball. He wants us to buy this car so bad. He wants to call my dad and beg him to let us keep it. My oddball 15 year old skater guy looks at this car like I did my Bug.
I’ve had to explain how to open the door, that you have to manually push down every lock. But it’s also allowed me to explain hey- be grateful the radio is updated and we have power windows. It’s the little things.
I don’t know if we will be able to keep this car that my kids see as ancient.
But for my oddball’s sake, I’m crossing my fingers.
Oh…and if you choose to make fun of those whose car is a little older or louder than yours, it may be by choice. They may have lived long enough to see that the nicest rides don’t mean anything, if you’re killing yourself trying to pay it off.