It’s my car, not my identity
(Originally published October 2023)
You know the kind of person who takes great pride in the car they drive and spends all kinds of time and money accessorizing and maintaining it?
I am not that kind of person.
I drive a used 2014 or 2015 Chevy Equinox—or “Equin x,” according to what’s left of the emblem on the back hatch. The car suits me: It’s dependable but unexciting, rapidly aging, and easy to miss in a crowd. The make is so common that I routinely attempt to climb into someone else’s if it’s parked within five spaces of mine.
I’m not sure of the model year; that tells you all you need to know about how interested I am in cars. The only thing I care less about is jet skis; fortunately, I don’t need one of those to get to the grocery store.
As a young adult, I treated my car like a combination storage unit and dumpster. I only started keeping it marginally cleaner when a family of neighborhood raccoons inquired about using it as a seasonal rental.
“I’m passionate about many things, but not, for example, having spotless fins on my dashboard vents. ”
Still, when our kids were little, it served as a repository for their spare sweatshirts and used lollipop sticks. They customized the interior by smearing their fingerprints on the windows and grinding goldfish crackers into the upholstery.
For my part, I continued to leave empty coffee mugs in the cupholders and throw hair ties and ballpoint pens around the cabin like party favors.
Over time, however, the kids grew up, and I began driving less. Some late-onset maturity—the same magical force that finally inspired me to start keeping my keys in the same spot—got me to stop leaving stuff in the car.
When I was giving the Equin x its semiannual vacuuming the other day, I was struck by how far I had come: Other than a few crumpled receipts and a handful of loose change in the console cubby—crucial for the two or three times a decade I drive on toll roads—the interior was practically empty.
I may not use the car like a mobile junk drawer anymore, but it’s not like I actively take care of it, either. There are people who wash their cars regularly and have standing appointments with the detailer. I, on the other hand, have been driving around for weeks with my granddaughter’s cryptic message—“h e t p t”—scrawled in the grime on my passenger door.
Eventually the rain will take care of it; for now, kindergartners keep flashing me what appear to be gang signs as I drive through town.
One long-ago summer, I had my car detailed. There was an incident in which, while loading groceries, I dropped a gallon of milk in the cargo area. It split open, dumping all 128 ounces into the nether regions of the car. (The smell did go away. I just can’t remember whether the detailing did the trick or whether I sold the car.)
Barring another dairy disaster, however, I don’t see more detailing in my future. I’m passionate about many things, but not, for example, having spotless fins on my dashboard vents. You’ll never see me polishing my car’s headlights or crouching to inspect the body for minor dents.
I just don’t care.
In fact, when I got the Equin x, the rear hatch paint was chipped in several places. I intended to have it repaired immediately.
The chips are still there.
And in case those weren’t enough to get me over the car’s new-to-me preciousness, Mark helped me by driving the tractor bucket into the bumper within the first month.
The resulting crinkle is still there too.
Sometimes I wish I had a fancier car, but I know I’d never keep it up the way it deserved. Plus, I’ve heard what some people pay each month for their flashy new vehicles; for that kind of money, I’d rather buy a modest second home.
I don’t begrudge anyone their shiny, keyless, heated-seat, sunroofed, parking-assisted, new-car-smelling, rapidly depreciating investments. For now, however, I’m content with my dull, dusty, dinged-up Equin x.
Now and then, I feel a pang of envy toward people who drive around town with their chins held high and a smug look that says, “My car is cool and so am I.”
But I’ve made peace with my own signature look while driving: a slight grimace that says, “It’s not pretty, but it’s paid for.”
