In the continued adventures of my newfound forgetfulness, I neglected to have my car inspected last month. Normally I take care of it as soon as the notice arrives, and several times I told myself “Oh yeah, I’ll do that tomorrow,” before it slipped my mind or was preempted by Covid-y disruptions and rescheduled appointments.
I rarely drive it anymore, preferring to walk whenever possible, and when Crankenstein and I go somewhere together we normally take her car since ‘Niles’ has developed irrational phobias about mine. It would make more sense, I suppose, to sell it and pocket the cash: despite its advanced age, it has lost shockingly little value. But my sentimental attachment runs deeper than money, which leaves me feeling conflicted — why should it languish in the garage when someone else could enjoy it as much as I did?
If the neurologist could better relax my neck, and if there’s any chance that getting my levodopa dialed in might ease problems with spatial awareness, it’s still what I’d want to drive: a low-mileage hatchback, practical in every way, paid off during Obama’s first term. It’s the first and only new car I’ve owned, painstakingly selected for its utility and low cost of ownership. Purchasing it was one of the best financial decisions I’ve ever made. Paying it off early was one of the worst.
I was living in an apartment then and carried no other debt; owing anyone anything made me chafe. There were so many financial goals I wanted to achieve for myself and my former partner, including — in the absence of her getting a job or committing to future plans in another location — homeownership. With an income as low as mine, I’d need a superlative debt-to-credit ratio to qualify for a mortgage.
Because the economy was still in shambles, the interest rate on my car note was only 0.9%. But I raced to pay it off anyway, tracking my monthly progress in a notebook and making a game of it. Nothing was too small to escape my attention: I meticulously tracked what we saved by using grocery coupons and reducing our utility bills, tossed in my side gig earnings, and it all went directly to principal. Once the loan was repaid, I checked the mail every day until the title arrived.
Opening the envelope was a strangely emotional experience. The document held in my hands represented not only freedom but something I valued just as much: security. My first thought, deemed ‘weird’ by almost everyone I’ve ever shared it with, was “At least we’ll always have a place to sleep.” They couldn’t fathom worrying about homelessness when I was employed, and when we weren’t estranged from our families and had money in the bank.* But I can’t relate to not worrying about it, even now. (Being displaced from your home tends to leave you with lingering concerns of that nature.)
How much of my reluctance to part with a car that’s mostly unused today has to do with the freedom and security it represented in the past? Probably most of it. Crankenstein and I could easily share one car now and bank the savings toward a future replacement with updated safety features, like a backup camera and lane departure warnings, that might make driving easier for me. We wouldn’t last two nights trying to sleep in my car in an emergency, anyway — not with her violent thrashing and Muriel as a bunkmate.