Farewell, Sticky Friend.

Why does every bit of Pleasure come with a free sample of Guilt shrink-wrapped to it?

My old, sticky, silver minivan is sitting in the driveway, not being driven. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think she’s looking a little sad. Forlorn, even.

Hurt, alone: giving me the cold shoulder

“Oh sure, go ahead — walk right past me,” she taunts. “Don’t think I don’t notice you, Miss Thang, zipping off in that OTHER car.”

*A sob escapes her carburetor*

“Are the girls making HER all sticky, too? Grinding cranberries into HER plush carpeting? Sprinkling HER with enough crumbs to feed a family of four?”

Fine. I admit it. The guilt is killing me.

I’ve been cheating.

See, I’ve been driving around in a sleek, silver Volvo V70 for the past few weeks. Ignoring the reproachful glances from the driveway. Ignoring the guilt… but REALLYreallyREALLY enjoying having an operational A/C system, a sunroof, and — get this — a real, working RADIO! That plays music and news whenever I want it to! (It’s only been a year and a half of driving in silence. Punctuated by screams and bickering, of course.)

It all started back in Colorado, before we moved. I was innocently changing the clock in my van for daylight savings, when suddenly there was… nothing. No clock, no radio. Soon after that, a complete transmission overhaul. Then, here in Minnesota, another squillion dollars in repairs.

We stopped short of the $800 for a new A/C condenser — so earlier this summer, I had the pleasure of driving with all the windows open to avoid cooking the children. I always arrived looking wild and windblown, with sweat marks in all the wrong places. I began wearing my beloved baseball cap daily.

And that’s when the love affair with my van ended.

Oh, it had been going downhill for awhile before that, if I’m being honest. I’d started feeling dowdy when I rolled up to my destination. Kind of Wal-Marty. I stopped caring about how close I was parking to other cars, because what are a few dings? My Blue Book was already nil, so even trade-in value stopped mattering much.

How did my sense of self get so wrapped up in a means of transportation?

And like I said, I suppose I should be thrilled to be driving a Volvo. We had a bright yellow, 1974 Volvo station wagon as kids — I even took my driver’s test on that sucker, despite the stick-shift and parallel parking — so I guess I’ve always felt nostalgic about the brand. I like the boxy look. I like the safety record. And this one is zippy. A 2005, but with only 30,000 miles on it.

Dream come true, right?

Maybe my guilt comes less from my sticky friend in the driveway — and more from the owner of the V70.

It’s my father-in-law’s car, and he wants us to drive it while we decide what to do about our car situation. He’s not driving it because a tumor in his brain stem has slowly, methodically and cruelly stripped him of all that matters to him in his life. Independence, the ability to care for himself, the ability to give to others as he’s done all his life.

It’s not fair, it sucks, and I think of it every time I lower myself into the leather seats.

I guess I knew why I wasn’t doing flips over my long-anticipated farewell to the sticky van. I’d imagined trading it in, then driving off into the sunset, laughing gaily in my sportier used vehicle as my gauzy scarf flapped in the breeze.

But life doesn’t always work out the way we plan. Just ask my father-in-law.

Advertisement