The Benz
I've never really cared for Mercedes Benz. Both my parents drive Mercedes. My dad: a 1977 baby blue diesel he bought off an old couple for $1500 about 10 years ago. It was at the time I was about to get my first car and when we went to see the car, I thought maybe it was for me. I had about $700 and told my dad that I was willing to contribute the money to purchase the Mercedes and he can just keep driving his current car, a 1989 red Chevrolet Beretta with no muffler. I gave him the money and we bought the car. Once the car was ours, he told me, "Honey, I don't think a 17-year-old girl should be driving an old diesel engine. You wouldn't know what to do with it." And then he gave me his old Beretta. For the $700 I gave him. Nice trick, dad.
The blue Mercedes (which I would've looked so cute driving) ended up outlasting the Beretta, which lasted me about three years, breaking down a week after I virtually killed it on the drive from Brownsville to San Marcos. Then I sold it to my hapless neighbors, who left the car parked in the apartment complex for months because (surprise!) it was a total lemon at this point. I warned them, though. Matt and I didn't have a way to get around for about six months, save for the shuttle bus, which drove us to and from school, and nice friends with whom we hitched rides to the grocery store and such.
My mom's car, on the other hand, is a new Mercedes. I'm not quite sure how she can afford it on her teacher's salary, but nice cars are kind of a priority for her, so there you go. I'm not crazy about driving it because it's bulky, the seats are uncomfortable, and I'm very aware that it's a nice car by the way people look at me on the road. I'm not into that sort of attention.
But something happened yesterday morning that changed my mind about Mercedes.
I was downtown, about to cross the street from my parking garage to the building I work in when I saw a pretty blonde girl turning slowly into my parking garage. She was wearing sunglasses and a pretty blouse, and listening to loud fun music -- the epitome of a young urban professional enjoying her drive to her downtown job. I saw her, thought about my dented Hyundai with no CD player and one working headlight, and suddenly wanted what she had -- her car, her sunglasses, her wardrobe, her placid expression that could best be described as content. You couldn't tell if she was going to work, happy hour, or coming back from a massage.
Her car was baby blue like my dad's. I decided that the blonde girl probably comes from a family of money and that's how she has that car. That's the most logical reason behind a young twenty-something driving a car like that, right? Or maybe she prioritizes like my mom. I doubt it, though. If she does come from money, then I don't feel so envious anymore. Yes, I still want that pleasant drive to work, but I wouldn't trade my dad's $700 tricky Beretta experience for anything. If I came from money, then I wouldn't know things like how to get my car running by opening the hood of my shitty Beretta every day after school and pouring water in the radiator (antifreeze was too expensive). I wouldn't have been the girl with the worst car of her group of friends and was always voted to drive "across"...meaning, drive across the bridge to Matamoros, Mexico, which was where the high school kids in Brownsville go to party. And if I came from money, I wouldn't be strangely proud that I am the only 26-year-old I know who's never had a CD player in her car...
But the winds are a-changing, because I'm feeling the itch to upgrade. I want a car that I feel good about. A car that I will wash more than twice a year. A car that has a CD player. The next car I buy may not be a Mercedes, but it will definitely be one in which I can listen to my music. And for sure one that won't get me voted to drive "across."
The blue Mercedes (which I would've looked so cute driving) ended up outlasting the Beretta, which lasted me about three years, breaking down a week after I virtually killed it on the drive from Brownsville to San Marcos. Then I sold it to my hapless neighbors, who left the car parked in the apartment complex for months because (surprise!) it was a total lemon at this point. I warned them, though. Matt and I didn't have a way to get around for about six months, save for the shuttle bus, which drove us to and from school, and nice friends with whom we hitched rides to the grocery store and such.
My mom's car, on the other hand, is a new Mercedes. I'm not quite sure how she can afford it on her teacher's salary, but nice cars are kind of a priority for her, so there you go. I'm not crazy about driving it because it's bulky, the seats are uncomfortable, and I'm very aware that it's a nice car by the way people look at me on the road. I'm not into that sort of attention.
But something happened yesterday morning that changed my mind about Mercedes.
I was downtown, about to cross the street from my parking garage to the building I work in when I saw a pretty blonde girl turning slowly into my parking garage. She was wearing sunglasses and a pretty blouse, and listening to loud fun music -- the epitome of a young urban professional enjoying her drive to her downtown job. I saw her, thought about my dented Hyundai with no CD player and one working headlight, and suddenly wanted what she had -- her car, her sunglasses, her wardrobe, her placid expression that could best be described as content. You couldn't tell if she was going to work, happy hour, or coming back from a massage.
Her car was baby blue like my dad's. I decided that the blonde girl probably comes from a family of money and that's how she has that car. That's the most logical reason behind a young twenty-something driving a car like that, right? Or maybe she prioritizes like my mom. I doubt it, though. If she does come from money, then I don't feel so envious anymore. Yes, I still want that pleasant drive to work, but I wouldn't trade my dad's $700 tricky Beretta experience for anything. If I came from money, then I wouldn't know things like how to get my car running by opening the hood of my shitty Beretta every day after school and pouring water in the radiator (antifreeze was too expensive). I wouldn't have been the girl with the worst car of her group of friends and was always voted to drive "across"...meaning, drive across the bridge to Matamoros, Mexico, which was where the high school kids in Brownsville go to party. And if I came from money, I wouldn't be strangely proud that I am the only 26-year-old I know who's never had a CD player in her car...
But the winds are a-changing, because I'm feeling the itch to upgrade. I want a car that I feel good about. A car that I will wash more than twice a year. A car that has a CD player. The next car I buy may not be a Mercedes, but it will definitely be one in which I can listen to my music. And for sure one that won't get me voted to drive "across."
posted by deconstructionist at 9:59 AM
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