My Car Knows Too Much About Me

Does your car know more about you than you do?

It doesn't take a genius to recognize the connection between people's cash liquidity and the kind of car they drive. In addition to the cost of a car, there's a host of embarrassing things my car could say about me if it could talk. Like my apartment walls, my car definitely knows too much.

The first thing my 2009 Toyota Corrolla would tell you is that I'm a filthy slob. Because I own a pet sitting service the car's interior is littered with long white hair that makes it look like I murdered a polar bear. There's a coin-operated car wash and vacuum several minutes from where I live. Unfortunately, proximity isn't a win if the wash is usually closed and the vacuum has the suction of a baby lizard. The mess in my car typifies what's happening in my apartment. At least in my apartment, there's an order to the way I do things whereas, in my car, nothing I do makes sense.


Two dogs that I pet sit for sitting in the back of my Toyota
My polar bears in my Toyota Corrolla

My car would agree that I have road rage that's locked and loaded to use any time. I do experience great shame when I have a colossal meltdown towards a driver, but it doesn't stop me from doing it again. The consequence of losing your shit on a Hawaii road is different than on the mainland (the contiguous United States.) Hawaii residents don't live in grass shacks or drive Flinstone cavemobile's. We drive the same cars that anyone else drives, on the mainland (the contiguous United States.) If I yell, "Hey fucking asshole, can you drive any slower?" at the driver ahead of me, there's a large chance that person is my neighbor and it's happened before.

My car would tell you that I eat like an eleven-year-old several times a day. I eat candy bars almost every morning for breakfast in my car. The chocolatey crumbs land on my lap and eventually make their way underneath my legs. I'm not bothered at all by a mess of the crumbs. Instead, it's what happens when the heat from the back of my legs melts the chocolate. This means when I get out of my car it looks like I have recently pooped my pants. Unlike eleven-year-olds who might occasionally have this happen, I don't do this.

The irony that's most striking to me is that the outside of my car looks decent while the interior is a trainwreck. Similar to my life, the exterior of my body is only slightly bruised, but in my head, there's an ongoing silly string party 24 X 7. I don't hide the fact that I struggle with mental health. One of the reasons I won't keep my mental health challenges a secret is my desire to let other women know they're not alone.


My best friend Ellen who has since passed, sitting in the passenger seat of my Jeep on the day of her wedding.
My best friend Ellen, RIP, on her wedding day in my Jeep

My first car is symbolic of the relationship I have with my dad. I came home from work one day and he had bought me a used Volkswagon rabbit as a surprise. It drove great as long as I didn't have to come to a full stop at traffic lights. Instead, I had to approach cars by breaking a mile away and slowly crawling toward them. This worked once or twice but eventually, the car continued to stall at every light in Fairfield, CT until I had to tell my dad he bought me a lemon.

This was confirmed when he brought the car to a mechanic who said it was most likely in a wreck because its frame was crazy glued together. My dad decided that not only did I personally need to sell the car, but I also needed to lie to whoever would be purchasing the car about its issues. It was a great example of a nice idea not only going wrong but turning catastrophic.

My car would tell you that I drive convinced the driver immediately behind my car hates me. In my head, they need me to get out of their line of vision as if I'm an insult to Karl Benz, the person credited with inventing the automobile. I do get out of the way for those who seem to not have the patience needed to be near me. My paranoia about driving is analogous to my paranoia that people around me will eventually surpass me in their careers and socially.


Me standing in front of my Pathfinder, very happy, to have purchased my first car in Hawaii
My Pathfinder, my first car purchase in Hawaii

My car would have no problem admitting that I'm a very good host to both two-legged and four-legged creatures. For the dogs, I have ice cold water and many milk bones. For two-legged beings, I have bottled water, and the car is always vacuumed. The latter is possible because I drive to an "Auto Spa" in an adjacent town.

Because I'm driving people's pets which are their babies, I pay a large amount of money every few months to make sure my car is in good shape. Before owning a pet sitting service I would rarely take my car to a mechanic for preventative care as opposed to fixing it because it had already failed.

The red Jeep Wranger picture was the first car that I purchased. The car would say in those days I was extremely confident if not cocky about my present and future. The silver Pathfinder would admit that the only reason it was purchased was to be a reminder of a beautiful black Pathfinder I owned in Connecticut. That Pathfinder would spill the secret that it was purchased because I idolized a young, gorgeous veterinarian who also drove one. At the ripe old age of 53, I'm just happy that I have the dexterity in my hands and feet, and the proper vision to see where I'm going.

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