I got my Mercury back. Honestly, I had no idea it would feel as good as it does. Shall we reference an ever-obvious mobility metaphor here? Sure...
When I moved to Vancouver, I considered myself mobile; in every aspect of my life. For once, I had a car. For once, I was moving somewhere that wasn't predetermined in some way by the experience before it. For once, I was not doing something based on my desire to be with someone. I was moving to Washington state to be adventurous, write a novel, and be MOBILE.
I was! I was mobile! I drove everywhere, got lost a ton, always found my way home, discovered the Pacific Northwest via my Mercury Sable. I moved around in my little soul, too-- going from obsessed to independent, girl to woman, crass to embarrassable, short fiction writer to novelist, talker to doer, socialite to hermit crab. Mobility was everything. I needed it. When my car was in the shop, I panicked. When the snow storm hit, I shoveled my driveway and drove down the street, just to prove that I could. When Daniel or Kevin didn't work out, I just moved on to Chris or Jake or Brad. When the corporate pigs told me how to dress, how to move, I quit.
For some reason, when I moved back here, the mobility issue took a back seat. I was home again, turkey sandwiches and guitars and grandmothers. It wasn't as pertinent to desire mobility. It was irrational, even. I didn't even notice when the car was in the shop how much I missed it.
TODAY, though, driving my familiar car with its familiar sounds and familiar brake pedal and familiar smell and familiar CD player and familiar seat adjustor knob, I was uncontrollably happy and exploded into a series (not too short) of raucous giggles and had to hug myself three or four times to calm down. I love my car. It still sounds like shit, but I love my car.
