Uch

I'm really not this superficial, I promise. Okay, maybe I am. Sort of.

Last night, for the second time in less than a week, I was a passenger in my own car. Now, for most people this would not indicate that a huge psychological barrier had been overcome. However, when it comes to my car, I am not most people. Not. Even. Remotely. Close.

Prior to this past Sunday night, in the 27 months I have owned my automobile (acquired with 8.2 miles on the odometer) my cool-as-hell aunt was the ONLY OTHER PERSON (non-valet, non-repairman) I had permitted to drive the car. Once.

In the past 72 hours, I have been chauffeured by TWO DIFFERENT INDIVIDUALS (a friend & the roomie). While it’s true that I was in absolutely no shape to drive either evening, that had never deterred me in the past. The car has been abandoned at myriad watering holes and homes both in Los Angeles and Las Vegas rather than my turning the keys over to a non-stranger. I have said “not a chance” to my mother, my father, my stepbrother, my brother, my cousins and countless others without a second of guilt.

It’s not that I love the car any less now. In fact, my affection toward it has grown exponentially as we’ve both aged. We may not be as red hot as we were those early months together, but our mutual reliance and utter familiarity with each other has bred a fondness and level of comfort that cannot be overestimated. I guess we’ve just reached a place where I’m confident that, no matter what, my car will come back to me. At 30, it’s nice to finally feel that way about something.

“If you love somebody, set them free” is actually beginning to make sense.