This post was going to be about the experience of buying a new car, but I did something really idiotic and closed the posting window before I was finished. The ordeal was exhausting; writing about it once was tiring enough, so I'm not going to re-write it. At least not now.

Giving up my old car was like saying goodbye to a part of myself. This past January, I'd had her for thirteen years, slightly over one-third my own total age. She was a 1990 Honda Civic DX, and she ran astonishingly well for how poorly I treated her. In thirteen years, I could probably count the number of oil changes on both hands — and Django Reinhardt could have counted the number of tuneups on his left hand. She had squeaks, rattles, and only one working external lock (a rear-end collision and a thief interested in appropriating my stereo had demolished the other two). But she still ran, which was a testament to either Honda's reliability or my own stupid luck.

Nevertheless, I traded her in for a Toyota Corolla. (I hope the universe doesn't believe in symmetry, for my first car was also a Corolla.) I've moved up in the automobile world; for the first time in my life, I own a car with air conditioning. It wasn't that important in Connecticut, where I bought my first two cars — but I cursed my short-sightedness (and stinginess) when I moved to Florida.

Anyway, there are some interesting things in the owner's manual. Two graphics particularly stand out:

MEANING: You are attempting to escape from The Village. Rover has been dispatched. Be seeing you.


MEANING: This vehicle is equipped with a high-voltage anti-theft device.

I'm still not finished with the purchase experience; I have to take it in tomorrow to have the dealership install some of the features I requested. Which means I'll once again have to run the gauntlet of vultures clustered at the door.

But that's a story for another time.