Trading Up

While waiting over two weeks to close the deal on my triumphant conversion to a Man Van, my motoring life has stalled in limbo. I'm driving the same good truck I was a month ago, but it seems a worn copy of its former self. Like being on a date with a girl you know you're going to break up with, it's the inversion of the first date when you are looking for all the qualities and signs that this was meant to be. I've definitely moved into the I don't know what I ever saw in you phase. And the truck knows it.

The driver's door gives up a pathetic little squeak when I open it. Something is rattling in the console -- a nervous tick I never noticed before. It seems to be collecting more dirt than usual. The rock dot on the windshield is spidering. This rig definitely knows it is being dumped and has stopped taking care of itself. When our favorite song comes on the radio I swear the engine lugs. What, you and your car don't have a favorite song? What kind of American are you?

Americans love their cars. Until we don't. First cars we always remember. Cars we might have had for awhile but didn't really deserve we remember. Trade-ins just get added to The Number -- no more indelible than your roommate's girlfriend's friend from Grand Rapids, or that bartender in Harrisburg.

So, fare-thee-well Toyota Tacoma double cab with the five foot bed, I hardly knew ye. Hello Toyota Sienna. Park it anywhere. Make yourself at home. Afterall, it is a three year lease.