Sometimes love means letting go - even if it is your beloved Mustang.
When I married eight years ago, my career, home and family dramatically changed; I was also expecting a baby, and my parents and I became estranged. The only two things that remained stable were my car, a 1996 red Mustang, and my last name. I had to hold on to something.
My then 6-year-old Mustang held my identity on its chassis, and I figured it could hold a baby just fine. When I parked my car at day care, I still wanted to be known as the redheaded girl with the red Mustang. Cool, sleek, hip. Being the car snob I was, I couldn't even imagine driving our used white Sable station wagon (aka "the white car") or anything like it for years to come. Too scary - that might mean I was actually a mother. I think Daniel was about 3 years old when I realized I was indeed a mother; I had heard my mother over the years tell me I shouldn't be a mother until I believed it as true. But that was last month's column.
A self-taught driver
I bought my 1996 laser red Mustang at Palmetto Ford in Charleston when I was 23. A 3.8 liter V-6 with manual locks and windows and no rear defrost, it had the turning radius of a Mack truck, but the automatic transmission and A/C worked great. Together, we learned how to pick out the headlight patterns of cop-owned Fords as we traveled the byways and highways of the Lowcountry. From zero to 60, she transformed me from geek to seductress, mousey to crimson, slob to lean in a single drive. In a pinch, I curled up in the backseat to sleep at the Hotel Mustang. She taunted my old lady driving and my panic at every new parking lot chip or bite mark.
Back in Virginia, where I grew up, I passed my driver's test my senior year of high school because I have a photographic memory, not because I had any real driving skills.
My parents took me out in their gold Cadillac maybe three times, and Mom declared, "That's enough - you almost hit that cyclist!" which was true, and she wasn't one for giving me multiple chances. Under my parents' roof, and that included college, they didn't want me to drive their only car, and I didn't protest. That's just the way it was.
When I was 21 and new to Charleston, I bought a jalopy with shaky steering to practice on and bang up. I was entirely self-taught because no one wanted to be hospitalized. The jalopy's A/C died, opening up a window for Mustang to redefine my identity and freedom, even while I still lived with my parents.
Finally four doors
Cut to three years ago when we discovered we were going to have another baby. Mustang had become incontinent and had the bad luck of getting her hubcaps and her front wiper blades lifted. Oh, the indignity!
At first I didn't want to listen to my husband when he said we'd have to buy a family car. But I was ready to get new wheels after I plunged Mustang into a curb on a slick Sunday afternoon.
Forget the sports car; I wanted to feel safe in a four-door with huge tires.
We put her up for sale on Craigslist. Shortly after we restored Mustang's rim and acquired a new hubcap for that damaged wheel, a dealer out of Southern Pines drove her away, never to be seen again.
Now I'm the owner of a 3-year-old Subaru Outback and a proud mother of two. My identity is no longer parked in the driveway.
