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Feb. 21st, 2011 02:28 amMy car is one of my best friends, in the same way as my teddy bear was my best friend when I was four. I used to tell my bear all of my secrets, and I don't know how many litres of tears he's soaked up over the years - even as a kid, I didn't cry in people's arms, I went into my room, or into the bathroom, or into the cedar closet in the basement, and I cried into my bear. (That's not to say I don't cry in public. I do. Lots. But it's crying at movies; all of my important crying, I do where nobody can see me).
My car is my new teddy bear. A couple of years ago, when the guy I'd just about gotten the nerve up to ask out came into work beaming from ear to ear and proclaiming that "she said yes!", I drove home weeping and making speeches to the steering wheel, and sat in my driveway for about an hour sobbing into the upholstery. It was raining out, and the car was its own little world; the seat was like a hug. It didn't say anything, obviously, and sometimes that's the best kind of friend: the kind that listens, and doesn't judge, and is there to take you to work the next morning, and offers you a mirror so that you can tell when your face has de-blotched enough to go out in public again without people badgering you to tell them what's wrong.
When I first learned to drive, my little Swift was the same way; when I was angry, or hurting, or feeling stifled, and couldn't bear the thought of being in the same house as people who cared about me to the point that they wouldn't let me sit in the bathroom by myself with the door locked for hours, I'd take her for a drive along the river, and park in one of the little towns - St-Mathieu, maybe - and crank the radio and watch the water until I felt fit for society again.
That's the one aspect that my car has over even my bear (who is sitting next to me right now, unneeded but ready to leap into action... or, well, flop into action. He doesn't have much stuffing left) - the ability to leave. When I'm sad, the thought of being trapped is terrifying.
When I'm happy, my car is my travelling companion. We go on adventures together. We explore. It's happy to climb steep hills; all it needs is a little help from me in terms of choosing a gear, and it leaps up them eagerly. Maybe I'm anthropomorphizing it. Okay, I am. It's a collection of bits of metal and plastic and fabric and rubber, put together in a factory, and there are thousands of other cars exactly like it. This one's mine, though, and I can't help feeling that it knows me as well as I know it.
What better friend is there than a friend who does not judge, a friend who will take you places, and a friend who does not complain when you sing Meat Loaf songs at the top of your lungs for hours on end?
(I've got some friends like that who are human, too. Even the Meat Loaf songs. Lucky me :-) )
I'm told there are people who think of their cars the same way they think of a washing machine or a vacuum cleaner - as appliances, mere tools. But I've never poured my heart out to a washing machine.
My car is my new teddy bear. A couple of years ago, when the guy I'd just about gotten the nerve up to ask out came into work beaming from ear to ear and proclaiming that "she said yes!", I drove home weeping and making speeches to the steering wheel, and sat in my driveway for about an hour sobbing into the upholstery. It was raining out, and the car was its own little world; the seat was like a hug. It didn't say anything, obviously, and sometimes that's the best kind of friend: the kind that listens, and doesn't judge, and is there to take you to work the next morning, and offers you a mirror so that you can tell when your face has de-blotched enough to go out in public again without people badgering you to tell them what's wrong.
When I first learned to drive, my little Swift was the same way; when I was angry, or hurting, or feeling stifled, and couldn't bear the thought of being in the same house as people who cared about me to the point that they wouldn't let me sit in the bathroom by myself with the door locked for hours, I'd take her for a drive along the river, and park in one of the little towns - St-Mathieu, maybe - and crank the radio and watch the water until I felt fit for society again.
That's the one aspect that my car has over even my bear (who is sitting next to me right now, unneeded but ready to leap into action... or, well, flop into action. He doesn't have much stuffing left) - the ability to leave. When I'm sad, the thought of being trapped is terrifying.
When I'm happy, my car is my travelling companion. We go on adventures together. We explore. It's happy to climb steep hills; all it needs is a little help from me in terms of choosing a gear, and it leaps up them eagerly. Maybe I'm anthropomorphizing it. Okay, I am. It's a collection of bits of metal and plastic and fabric and rubber, put together in a factory, and there are thousands of other cars exactly like it. This one's mine, though, and I can't help feeling that it knows me as well as I know it.
What better friend is there than a friend who does not judge, a friend who will take you places, and a friend who does not complain when you sing Meat Loaf songs at the top of your lungs for hours on end?
(I've got some friends like that who are human, too. Even the Meat Loaf songs. Lucky me :-) )
I'm told there are people who think of their cars the same way they think of a washing machine or a vacuum cleaner - as appliances, mere tools. But I've never poured my heart out to a washing machine.
