Death of A Car.

My car began driving progressively worse last Saturday, which I think I mentioned. It sort of limped along, and begrudgingly shifted into gear, albeit not right away.

I spent Tuesday lamenting the state of things, trying to explain via text message, what I meant when I said 'my car is not running right'.

I failed miserably at this task.

It's hard, Dear Friend, to articulate something in a precise and coherent way when you lack the necessary verbage. I tried to explain the sounds and feelings coming from my car, but could not seem to bridge the language gap with my dear, sweet Father.

The man breathes engines. They are some inherent part of his body, an extension of his self, and the subtle difference between a whirring sound and a whining sound is painfully apparent in his world. In mine, they're all the same.

"It makes a high-pitched, breathy kind of vrrooooom-vrooom sound sometimes," is apparently not a highly accurate description.

It is important to note that the car issues have been going on for some time now, and during this time not once has my Father attempted to drive it. Instead we've been playing this fun game of tell-me-again-what-the-car-is-doing, each time asking that this time I be more accurate, or more specific. Something which I simply cannot do. He might as well be asking me to translate Arabic for him. I lack the necessary skill set.

Wednesday morning it took me 40 minutes to drive the seven-ish miles from my house to work. My car ran at a snail's pace and regularly refused to accelerate. I got to work and text Dad to report that the car was most certainly going to die. He said he was sorry about the car, and asked me to drive it clear across town when I got off work.

I laughed.
Out loud.

I text him back to let him know that I was uncomfortable driving it out there. We went in the usual circles. Why? What's your car doing? What kind of sound? I don't know what that means? What gear is it? Put it in Low Gear? It's the farthest one aft. AFT.

At some point I gave up. I surrendered. Watched my soul crumple under the weight of despair and frustration. I responded that I was too frustrated to continue the conversation, that I don't know how to articulate any of these issues as I lack the words or the knowledge to be able to do so and I wasn't sure how I was supposed to overcome that. This was followed by a million frown-y faces, which I know, was cheating, but sometimes a girl has to play on her Daddy's heartstrings.

Dad immediately switched gears.

This is due, mostly to the fact that my Dad is awesome and has learned how to react when I let him know that I am approaching my frustration threshold. He came and picked up my car. We tried to put some red goo in the transmission, but we both knew it was too far gone. He left me his car for the night so I could run my errands, and then nursed my car through the long drive out to his house.

He made it there, but it died upon arrival. It would no longer move in any direction, in any gear. RIP dear, sweet friend.

We abandoned the plot to fix the car. It wasn't worth it. It had served me well. It had survived fires and accidents, extended road trips, and hundreds of miles of driving on dirt roads/old wagon trails not designed for little cars like mine. It was just time to let it go.

Dad listed it on Craigslist and it sold within 10 hours.
It is now someone elses to love.