My Car, Myself

Something I read recently asked, "Is Your Car A Reflection of You?" (Sadly, I can't remember what asked. It wasn't a blog. Or the school newsletter. Or the latest Peter Robinson novel. So probably a magazine or a website. Dang, I read a lot. No wonder my house is so messy.)

So it got me thinking about my car.

Like me, my car does have a fat ass and is really, really pale.

It's also kind of messy.

But show me a mom who doesn't have a messy car and I'll show you a woman with obsessive-compulsive disorder.

So is my glacier blue, messy minivan "me"?

I mean, it's a total mom car and I AM a mom. It's messy and I need a good hair cut. It's filled with stuff we might need and so is my brain.

But. . . it's not me, not any more than my old car was. My old car had obnoxious bumper stickers. It was red. It had make-up in the glove compartment.

I'd like to think that there's more to the concept of me than whether I'm a suburban mom or a single teacher. God knows they (and all my other incarnations) live in my head. But what does my head have to do with my car?

I can't accept that our society has become so shallow and materialistic that "car" and "self" can be synonyms. If your car is a reflection of you, why are fat, balding men always climbing out of sleek Porsches? Why do perfectly respectable people climb out of junker cars?

I mean, sure, the President, the Pope and Paulie the Pimp's cars reflect who they are, but I just don't think that's true for the average person. Do you?