It's been over six months since I bought my pickup truck.
When I was shopping for it, I imagined the process would make a magnificent blog tale, much like my search for a phone, or my search for a house, or my search for a bike. I even promised, when I was still in shopping mode, that I'd tell all about my decision and purchase when it happened.
Well,
it happened. And after it happened, I felt it would be bad luck to
gloat about my success too soon, in case my victory blew up in my face.
Sure
enough, things blew up. Not the engine, thankfully. The driver's side
door became hopelessly jammed only a day after passing inspection, and
the battery conked out the day I was about to take it to have the door
fixed. I was able to eventually solve both of those problems mostly on
my own, but by that point, I was so fatigued by truck ownership that I
had nothing I wanted to say about it.
Only now, after months of relative reliability, do I feel it's safe to proclaim, "I have a truck now!"
I have to admit, I am proud of this accomplishment. I've always secretly desired to drive a pickup. My first car was a tiny Plymouth Neon
with clouds on the roof and friendly messages on the hood—about as
cutesy as you can get without inducing vomiting. I loved that car
literally to death, but at the same time, I always fantasized about
another form of car ownership—a form that would reflect the fiercely
self-sufficient side of me that always remained hidden under my girly
exterior. There was once a book I read (I don't remember which one), and
one of the characters was a girl who proudly drove a pickup truck while
all the other kids in her high school coveted sportscars and limos.
This was a down-to-earth girl who did her own thing and didn't care what
anyone else thought. I wanted to be that girl.
But
dreams are dreams, and reality is reality, and a down-to-earth girl can
admit that a Neon gets better gas mileage. Practical concerns always
dictated that I keep the car I had, or take the one that was basically
free (I speak of my second car, Korg).
But
as time marched on, practical concerns shifted in their nature. Whereas
in the past, my car had been driven almost daily, in recent years I've
clocked almost no miles at all. I bike to work, I no longer go to school
in another city, and my live-in boyfriend has a car of his own. No
sense in both of us driving a compact SUV! When I drive somewhere these
days, 80% of the time it's to pick up construction materials at Home
Depot or free furniture from around the neighborhood, and my most
practical concern is how to not get mud all over the interior while
doing it. What better car for those needs than one where the exterior is
the interior?
When
the cost of repairing Korg rose to equal the cost of replacing him, I
decided that my next car was going to be a pickup. Although I said I'd
tell all about my decision and purchase of the truck, it's been so long
since it happened that I don't really recall any of the most salient
details. And besides, that's not the interesting part of this story. The
interesting part is how proud I feel, still, after so many months of
ownership, to step into my pickup truck and turn the ignition. I'm the
girl who drives a pickup truck! I'm a strong American woman with a
powerful American car!
They say Americans have a love affair with trucks,
which makes me just an average American—somewhat diminishing the image I
have of myself as the valiant nonconformist, out to thumb my nose at
convention in my unapologetically utilitarian vehicle. But average or
not, I haven't been this pleased about a car since I glued a plastic
bunny rabbit to the front of Zoot's hood.
There's
only one thing left to say about my truck, and that's its name. Like
all the good vehicles that went before it, my truck has a solid, strong,
one-syllable name, and like the good vehicle immediately preceding it,
this truck is named after a synthesizer. Can you guess?
I'll give you a minute.
Here's a picture!
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