It was the summer of 1996, and a certain 17-year-old girl was about to find herself in possession of a brand new, red, Chevy Cavalier coupe. Sort of like a sports car, but not. =)
Since she'd gotten her license the year before, this girl had driven her mother's old car. It was an Oldsmobile Delta '88. Picture a large, navy blue box with wheels. The thing was like driving a tank. It had a long, comfy bench seat and a skinny, faux wood plastic steering wheel.
She affectionately named her new chariot "Oscar the Oldsmobile." She and Oscar would go tooling down the road, oblivious to the fact that she needed tightly curled, slightly blue hair in order for them to look like like a couple. He meant freedom to her. She loved him, in all his retro glory.
But the day came when the local mechanic delivered some sad news. Oscar was dying. The energy within his engine was slowly fading away. He didn't have long. The teenage girl's father decided that it was time. He had to bite the bullet and find something else for his daughter to drive to college.
So they went to the local dealership, and he found the cheapest domestic new car he could get, (since he didn't believe in buying very used.) At first, he wanted to buy her a slightly used rental car in Barney purple, but her mother mercifully intervened. So she picked red. It was hers. She was thrilled. She hugged and kissed her sweet father, trying not to pout because he wouldn't buy her a Camaro. She was so mature at seventeen.
As they pulled back in the driveway, she spotted Oscar. He was parked in the utility barn, already lightly covered with dust. Guilt gripped her heart. How could she be disloyal to her first love this way? She left her new wheels behind without a backward glance and ran to his side. She stroked his faded blue paint, and told him that she'd miss him. She shed tears. She mourned the loss of the old friend, the tank who'd given her enough confidence on the road to move on to something smaller and shinier.
Her father watched the grieving process, shaking his head, and possibly thanking his lucky stars that he only had one highly melodramatic teenage daughter. He remembered how, as a little girl, she spent a morning in the basement workroom, telling the old tv goodbye when they got a new one. He began to see a pattern forming...
The girl is now 29. Her little family bought a new house with joy. But today they brought the "For Lease" yard sign and the lockbox for her current front door. How can she say goodbye to the sweetest little home she's ever known, the place where her son is learning to walk, and where she spends countless evenings listening to the crickets on her back porch? She is a traitor for buying something bigger and nicer. Shame on her. Today she is sad. It is the same process once again for a hater of change and an incurably irrational lover of inanimate objects...