I’m the person who parks waaaaay far out, preferably next to a curb. I don’t mind hiking into the store in order to protect my car. It’s not that I have a Porsche or Jaguar or Ferrari. No, I have a plain old gray VW Golf TDI. It’s not flashy or anything really special. Except, well, it’s mine. And it was my first new car. (Unless you count the Hyundai Elantra I bought in 1999… The transmission never worked, and even though it was “covered” under warranty, they kept telling me nothing was wrong with it, so I don’t count that one.)
So, back to the Golf.
I love my car. Not like, throw-myself-on-the-traintracks-to-save-it-love, but park-far-out-where-no-one-else-parks-love. Which is why it irritates me when I inevitably come out of the store and find someone parked next to me. There were 242 other spots, and you had to park next to me? Why? Why?!?
So far, I’ve managed to keep my car in pretty good condition, considering I drive a minimum of 400 miles per week. I don’t eat in my car, and do my best to keep it cleaned out, which isn’t easy considering I feel like I live in my car.
I’m waxing philosophical about my car because I recently read the greatest story ever. If it’s fiction, it’s awesome, and if it’s non-fiction, that’s even more awesome. I have had door dings in other cars, and while I wasn’t quite as passionate as this guy, with my current car love, I could see how it could come to this point. Prepare to laugh.