It sat for months, waiting to be sold. Every time I went by I wished I could buy it, but $1500 was out of my range, even though it’s not much for a car. I finally called to see if the price was negotiable and was told the lowest they’d let it go for was $1200, but I didn’t even have that – and even if I did – the cost to get it on the road would most likely be $1000 more.
I kept imagining myself behind the wheel, trying to remember what it was like when I rode with my sister when she had one.
This VW Bug was in great shape for being nearly forty years old, and allegedly it only had one owner, the guy’s mother, who maintained it well.
Of course he’d say that, and I hoped it was true.
After looking it over, the guy let me take it for a spin. It was harder to drive than I imagined. None of the pedals had padding, and my foot keep slipping as I engaged the clutch, which went way in – so different from today’s cars. The steering wasn’t too difficult even though it wasn’t powered steering, but the fantasy I had created about how great it would be to own and drive the cute yellow Bug was bursting all over the run-down seats, a nearly rusted through floor, and lower side panel, and the flat windshield and tiny side mirrors that made me wonder how anyone ever liked driving it.
I thanked the guy for letting me take it for a ride, and told him I hoped someone would buy it, but it wouldn’t be me.
It shouldn’t have surprised me how the idea of owning and driving it surpassed the reality, as that is often the case in so many life circumstances.
Even though I don’t want to own one anymore, the VW Bug holds a tender spot in my heart, and I can always remember times I rode with my sister all those years ago – more precious for the fun and good company than the transportation.
© seekingsearchingmeaning (aka Hermionejh) and Abstractly Distracted’s Blog, 2010 – current