My Birthday Surprise Part II
I stood there, mouth gaping, for a good three minutes while my father and my father-in-law snapped pictures. It was truly the only time in my life I was ever speechless. And completely out of character for me, I cried. Not shoulders- heaving sobs or anything, but quiet, soft tears. Even now I'm not sure if they were happy tears or not.
The car wasn't light blue anymore. It didn't have banged up bumpers or wiggly, ready-to-drop at any moment side rails. My mom asked me later if I knew that it was my car, not some other car, and I told her of course I knew it was mine. Even cleaned up as it was, and purple (the exact purple color of my sister-in-law's KitchenAid mixer), I knew it was mine. I knew the boy had heard me say enough times that I didn't ever want another bug, that I wanted my bug back someday.
Of course, I'm not even sure that's true. I had given up on that dream, thinking it was silly to be so sentimental over something like a car. Either way, it was my dream and the boy had gone ahead and made it happen. He had been sending checks to his dad for a year to pay for repairs and paint and new bumpers and engine tune-ups. His dad had been sending him pictures of the process. He and Jess had made secret trips to pick up my new transmission, a part which sat in my garage for months. A part I believed was scrap metal the boy had saved to give to his dad for junk. A part I wanted desperately to be removed from my garage because it looked like a hunk of scrap metal.
And this dream that I had long abandoned, that I had made my peace with, was sitting in near pristine condition in front of me. I was surprised. I was shocked. I was frightened because I wasn't sure I even wanted this car back, that I wanted to go back to that part of my life. And now I didn't have a choice.
That's not to say I'm not incredibly moved and touched and amazed that my husband would do something so wonderful, so thoughtful for me. Afterall, what man goes to all that effort and expense? It's no wonder everyone expected that I would give him a little something in return. But at the same time, that's not fair. I didn't ask for this back, and I don't think of sex as a reward. And then I feel a little guilty because apparently everyone else does.
The car still doesn't have plates. His brother never transferred the title to his name, so it's still in my dad's name. He was supposed to have it transferred, have it licensed before I got it. But that didn't happen. So I could only pull it out of the garage and into the driveway, nearly killing it because I took my foot off the clutch too fast. Yep, I pretty much got to embarrass myself in front of everyone too. I was never the best at driving stick. For the first three months I owned it, I killed it at every stop sign. My friends stopped wanting to ride with me. I eventually figured out I was putting it into third instead of first. Five years away from that car, I know I'm no good anymore. The boy and I proved this when we decided we couldn't handle it anymore and had to take it out at least once around the block, plates or not. That car growled every time I slowed or sped up or stopped. But maybe that's just because the new transmission isn't in yet.
Two weeks later and I'm still not sure where I'm at with this car. Pretty sure I'm happy to have it back. Sometimes I sneak into the garage and sit in it, sighing as I take in thirty years of smells. That smell that only an original beetle has--old, musty, dank. Stuck in the seats stuffed with what looks like hemp. Mom said she'd help me get the smell out, but I shook my head. "That's a good smell, Mom." Since I sold my bug, I took every chance I got to sit in an old bug and breathe in that smell. It's the smell of Kaplan's Woods, of my first real boyfriend, of peacock pants and hippie t-shirts. Of non-conformity and of a life before mortgages and forty hour work weeks and electric bills and dog grooming appointments.
The car wasn't light blue anymore. It didn't have banged up bumpers or wiggly, ready-to-drop at any moment side rails. My mom asked me later if I knew that it was my car, not some other car, and I told her of course I knew it was mine. Even cleaned up as it was, and purple (the exact purple color of my sister-in-law's KitchenAid mixer), I knew it was mine. I knew the boy had heard me say enough times that I didn't ever want another bug, that I wanted my bug back someday.
Of course, I'm not even sure that's true. I had given up on that dream, thinking it was silly to be so sentimental over something like a car. Either way, it was my dream and the boy had gone ahead and made it happen. He had been sending checks to his dad for a year to pay for repairs and paint and new bumpers and engine tune-ups. His dad had been sending him pictures of the process. He and Jess had made secret trips to pick up my new transmission, a part which sat in my garage for months. A part I believed was scrap metal the boy had saved to give to his dad for junk. A part I wanted desperately to be removed from my garage because it looked like a hunk of scrap metal.
And this dream that I had long abandoned, that I had made my peace with, was sitting in near pristine condition in front of me. I was surprised. I was shocked. I was frightened because I wasn't sure I even wanted this car back, that I wanted to go back to that part of my life. And now I didn't have a choice.
That's not to say I'm not incredibly moved and touched and amazed that my husband would do something so wonderful, so thoughtful for me. Afterall, what man goes to all that effort and expense? It's no wonder everyone expected that I would give him a little something in return. But at the same time, that's not fair. I didn't ask for this back, and I don't think of sex as a reward. And then I feel a little guilty because apparently everyone else does.
The car still doesn't have plates. His brother never transferred the title to his name, so it's still in my dad's name. He was supposed to have it transferred, have it licensed before I got it. But that didn't happen. So I could only pull it out of the garage and into the driveway, nearly killing it because I took my foot off the clutch too fast. Yep, I pretty much got to embarrass myself in front of everyone too. I was never the best at driving stick. For the first three months I owned it, I killed it at every stop sign. My friends stopped wanting to ride with me. I eventually figured out I was putting it into third instead of first. Five years away from that car, I know I'm no good anymore. The boy and I proved this when we decided we couldn't handle it anymore and had to take it out at least once around the block, plates or not. That car growled every time I slowed or sped up or stopped. But maybe that's just because the new transmission isn't in yet.
Two weeks later and I'm still not sure where I'm at with this car. Pretty sure I'm happy to have it back. Sometimes I sneak into the garage and sit in it, sighing as I take in thirty years of smells. That smell that only an original beetle has--old, musty, dank. Stuck in the seats stuffed with what looks like hemp. Mom said she'd help me get the smell out, but I shook my head. "That's a good smell, Mom." Since I sold my bug, I took every chance I got to sit in an old bug and breathe in that smell. It's the smell of Kaplan's Woods, of my first real boyfriend, of peacock pants and hippie t-shirts. Of non-conformity and of a life before mortgages and forty hour work weeks and electric bills and dog grooming appointments.
posted by KC in Katoland at 2:00 PM
2 Comments:
God, girl, you can write!
Hahahaha, and I AM SNEAKY!!!
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