If you know me, you know I love my car. She's my baby, my little "Cookie", a gift from my hubby at Christmas in 2003. She is perfect. A gorgeous color, runs like a dream, corner's like a cheetah and has that little turbo boost when I need to zing into traffic. Except for a tiny ding above the left front fender from a careless child opening a door into her, she is a shining example of what a car should look like when regularly washed and waxed. And except for a horrifying moment when a lube and oil "specialist" screwed up a simple oil change, she has had a flawless running record.
Now, she isn't perfect. Now we have one less raccoon in the neighborhood and a big crack in my bumper. I wasn't driving by the way.
We are very lucky the air bags didn't deploy, but that doesn't make me feel much better. I can drive her, but it makes me feel sad to do so. It's probably weird to be so attached to the car, but there is a LOT of sentiment behind it and that is what makes me sad.