A special post: regarding the potential loss of a great friend

On Tuesday, July 28th, my 2002 Volvo S60 suffered a damaging blow to her front bumper. Her left headlight shattered, glass shards strewn in the intersection of 29th and St. Paul Street. The front plate reading “Dyer and Dyer Cars” that she once wore proudly, now trampled by ongoing traffic. The bumper clung to the car desperately, trying to keep himself together during the moment of peril.

After five happy years with my precious 2002 Volvo S60, her future is at stake.

Exhaustion hit following a long day of sitting on my ass in front of a computer screen at my magazine internship for the summer. I don’t understand how I can be so tired from moving so little. I thought I would take a nap when I arrived at my apartment, and then go for a run later. I thought of my soft bed, laden with pillows and a fluffy comforter. “Empire State of Mind” by Jay-Z played on the radio, at least I think it did. To be honest, all I remember is black, then a flash of yellow. No, not the shining light at the end of the tunnel, but the back of a taxi cab. When I realized what was going on, it was already too late for my Volvo. I remember the crunch, as I came out of my daze, powerless to help her.
I didn’t think the damage could have been much. I don’t remember feeling much when I hit the taxi. It was quite similar to the way it feels when my dad shakes me awake in the morning whenever I’m home. I tried to brake at the light, so I wasn’t completely oblivious. But the last few seconds before I struck were lost.

The repercussions were far worse than I anticipated. The complacent expression that once served as the front of my car was unrecognizably mangled. My only thought – “I’m an idiot.” Dozing off at the wheel? Pathetic. And the taxi? Unharmed, except for a small scrape near the rear tailpipe. Typical. Luckily, the cab driver spoke English and was quite nice about the situation.

My car now sits in a body shop, awaiting its potentially morbid fate. When the inspector mentioned the word, “totaled” my head began to spin as I thought about life without my Volvo. I learned to drive in that car, I survived my melodramatic teenage years in that car. I had driven that car to my new home in Baltimore to spend the summer with me. She had been a reliable companion, taking me where I needed to go, when I wanted. The South Carolina license plate was a minority up here, and made me feel proud to be among the few from the South. The rainbow colored palm tree window sticker, my high school parking sticker from 2006-2007 that I still hadn’t removed – all of these were reflective of me.

I am now driving a rental Hyundai while my car is held captive. Let’s just say it’s no Volvo.

UPDATE: the Volvo is offically dead as of August 3rd, 2010.