Monday, 28 February 2005 | Material attachments

Parked in my parents' driveway is the gray 1988 Honda Accord that allowed me to drive 10,600 miles around the United States, even though, upon departure, it already had 222,000 miles of experience. It asked to be put in the shop only three times on that trip, which seemed like a fair trade, especially since that meant I got to learn about welding from a strange round-eyed man in New Mexico.

The car also tried to absorb two deer like a catcher's mitt (both bounced off, but only one ran away), making it look like it had gotten punched in the eye. (The 1988 Honda Accord, you may recall, had 'futuristic' pop-up headlights that refused to wink or function when dented.)

I love that the car has a few pings (which I don't recall being responsible for—conveniently, I never remember that sort of thing), because it means that I can drive through any neighborhood, poor or almost poor, guilt-free. I like that the fuzzy seats have a smattering of comfort stains, assuring riders that it's really not a problem if they spill a little coffee here and there. I also think it's kind of nice that I have to softly hit the driver's side window with my fist if I want it to close all the way, because it makes me feel as if my car and I have a secret language.

I'm happy that it's got four doors instead of two, that it gets good gas mileage, that it's a stick shift, and that driving it is as pleasant and easy as taking a nap. I'm fond of the extras I've bought for it: the steering wheel cover decorated with yellow and red flames, the 5-disc CD changer, and the new engine, which was transplanted at 255,000. I even like the way the door sounds when it's closed, and how the handle slightly resists when lifted. I know that a can of soda fits perfectly between the driver's seat and the emergency brake. I also learned, early on, exactly how far below the red bar that the needle can go before I run out of gas.

Honestly, if I had an infinite amount of money to buy any car I wanted, I would buy my eyesore of a car without having to think about it. I don't know if that's because I'm practical (okay it's not because I'm practical), because I'm stupidly sentimental, or because I don't like status symbols, but in any case, it's the car I want, despite that it now has 289,000 miles on it and its fifth gear has completely dissolved.

My parents have been wanting to sell my car ever since I moved to New York two-and-a-half years ago, reasoning that it wasn't doing anyone any good sitting in their driveway. I countered their reasoning by suggesting that it would be essential to have a car on hand if I ever moved away from New York. Of course, the problem with my argument is that I have no plans to leave New York, and the car is steadily creeping deeper into decay (and therefore decreasing in value). (Which is another problem: no one seems to think the car is as valuable as I do.)

I've conceded. My clever parents, who are aware how much the car means to me, offered possibly the only suggestion that would make me feel okay about letting it go. They suggested that I use the money I make from the sale to buy a Nikon D70, a digital SLR camera. "That's a good idea," I promptly admitted. (It's embarrassing how easily my allegiance to my beautiful car collapsed. I'm sorry, car.)

Last Tuesday, a nice Hasidic man named Paul who happens to read my site (Hi Paul!) sold me the D70 at a very good price, making the choice seem that much more logical. The camera is fancy and complex and exactly what I've been wanting (needing, even) for the last several months, though it is noticeably smaller than my Accord and has a very different skill set.

I keep making the mistake of thinking my decision was between a camera and a car, but really it has a lot more to do with New York. In any case, I'm sad and happy.