My car is broken. My beautiful 2016 Chevrolet Equinox is currently sitting in the garage, with her hood popped open.
It’s like I’m looking at an operating table. My dad is in cargo shorts and a stained Tigers shirt, elbow deep in motor oil. The wheel is off, and parts are lying all over the floor. My father, the surgeon in this case, delivers the news like I’m a close family member in the waiting room.
I’m sitting on the steps of my garage with my palm to my forehead.
“It’ll take time,” he says, sighing with his eyebrows furrowed.
The good news is that the car is fixable. The bad news is that it will take at least two weeks. In two weeks, I’ll be in France for the summer. When she comes back to life, I won’t even be there for the big day. In July, I’ll (hopefully) return to a car that works.
She’s a beauty
She has a remote start (an essential for cold Michigan winter), heated seats, Bluetooth so I can blast my Spotify, a nice sunroof for summer days and four extra seats for friends to hitch a ride. She’s reliable, and I know what most of the buttons mean. What else could I ask for?
Her name is Stinky. When I first got her, she smelled bad – like really bad. I describe it like a can of beans rotting in a desk drawer. To this day, I have no idea why it smelled so bad when the car came into my possession.
To this day, I still apologize to new passengers for the smell. Everyone claims they can’t notice, but maybe they’re being nice. I’ve installed at least four air fresheners that work simultaneously to combat my fear of a bad-smelling car.
Stinky is a collection of my memories. There’s a splotch of blue paint on the driver’s seat – a relic from the time when I painted the senior rock in high school. I accidentally got paint on my jean shorts, which transferred over to the driver’s seat. It was house paint, and it still has not come off.
My golf clubs and pickleball paddles are normally thrown in the trunk during the summer. There’s a travel perfume in the center console, and a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses is in the cup holder. She’s lived in.
She’s taken me everywhere: to prom with my friends, countless Pine Knob concerts, to OU and to work. She’s been there for late-night snacks, early-morning internship shifts and everything in between.
Driver’s test
This may sound dramatic, but Stinky has been through a lot with me – hence my dramatic reaction.
At 16, I took my driving test with Stinky. After months of driver’s training and logging practice hours, I was finally ready to take my driving test.
Both of my parents, both engineers, helped me prepare. They took their coaching duties very seriously. I practiced merging on the highway, navigating roundabouts and turning tight corners. I was confident. I was so confident that I booked my appointment at the Secretary of State for the same day as my test. I figured I would pass with flying colors, then head straight over to get my license.
I pulled up to the testing center in Stinky, the only car I had practiced with. During the parking portion, I ran over four cones. I didn’t complete a single parking maneuver correctly. The test ended before I was even allowed to drive on the road.
I cried the entire way home. I canceled my Secretary of State appointment on the phone in between sobs. It was humiliating to say the least. Maybe it was a good lesson in overconfidence.
Freedom
Eventually, I passed my test. It took me one more try, but I passed.
There I was: license in hand, keys to Stinky and ready to take on the world. It was everything I had imagined. When I was younger, 16 always seemed like the perfect age.
“How cool will it be when you can drive yourself places?” I used to think.
Now, I was that age. I didn’t have to be dropped off at a friend’s house. I could drive myself to work. I could go for a late-night snack with my friends, windows down, radio blasting. To put it simply, it was awesome. It was a rite of passage I had been waiting for.
Stinky gave me my first taste of freedom. She gave me choice, movement and a little extra legroom. She gave me the power to make my own choices and helped me leave behind the days of being a passenger. She helped me grow up.
The accident
This isn’t to say that everything was perfect, however.
I’m proud to report that in over five years of driving, I have only gotten into one accident. No one was harmed. In fact, there wasn’t even another car involved. Just me, Stinky and my friend’s mailbox.
It happened after a board game night at my friend’s house around midnight. I should have parked on the street. Instead, I made the stupid decision to pull into my friend’s long, winding driveway up a hill.
While backing down the driveway, I misjudged the curve and backed up too quickly. I backed right into my friend’s mailbox.
It wasn’t a small mailbox. It was a grand, monument-worthy brick structure marking the entrance to the home. It was something you would see while walking into a medieval castle.
To make matters worse, the whole accident was captured on his Ring doorbell. The security footage still lives in a hidden folder in my camera roll.
I came home in tears, still shaken up from the experience. My parents were hosting guests in our dining room, while I crept back into the house, sniffling like a sitcom character.
My mom, sensing something was wrong, excused herself and examined the damage with me, with a flashlight in hand.
Stinky and I survived. There was only a minor bump that was barely noticeable.
I was only a few weeks into getting my license, and I was spooked from the accident. Eventually, I gained my confidence back. Now I look back on the story with a lot more laughter, and I always park on the street.
Today
I’ve been without a car for the past week. I feel like living in the medieval era without a car. I walk everywhere like I’m in a historical drama and rely on others for rides like a peasant in need of a horse-drawn carriage.
Without Stinky, I can’t do the small things I took for granted. I can’t randomly run to Target for one specific item. I can’t randomly drive over a friend’s house just because I feel like it.
Instead, my bedroom has turned into the hottest hangout spot in town. My room has never seen so many people in the past few days. I honestly didn’t know I could fit this many people into one bedroom.
This experience has been a weird reminder of what my life was like before my license. I’ve been transported back into a time where I would bike around my neighborhood, walk to the corner for ice cream, watch rom coms in my basement and play lawn games in my backyard.
Honestly? I’ve been having a weirdly good time. Yes, it’s been mildly annoying and inconvenient. But honestly, I’m seeing the perks.
My life has been forced to slow down. I’ve been binge-watching my favorite movies, lounging on my patio, reading and curating the perfect Spotify playlists. It’s not the freedom I imagined, but it’s different – and dare I say a little refreshing.
So, what does one do with all the free time in the world, no car and a case of summer boredom? I called up my next-door neighbor like it was 2012 and we didn’t have iPhones.
I’ve known Katie, my neighbor, for literally my entire life. I don’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t know her.
She’s a grade younger than me but has always felt like a built-in best friend. We’ve roller-skated down our block in the summer, consumed gallons of Kirkland popcorn while watching movies and even camped out in tents in my backyard. Despite going to different colleges, we still make time for each other every summer.
During my week of being stuck at home, I called Katie up. We went on a three-hour walk together, wandering the neighborhood, gossiping, catching up and reminiscing. We made it so far that we made it to a lake two miles away.
The best part? It cost nothing. No gas, no money and no rush to be anywhere. It was a nice reminder that even without a car, life can still be exciting.
A summer apart
Until my car gets fixed, I’ll be weirdly enjoying this period of my life without a car. Still, I’m waiting in anticipation for Stinky.
While my dad watches YouTube tutorials and tries his mechanical magic to resurrect Stinky, I’ll be across the ocean, navigating public transportation in France.
It’s strange to imagine a summer without Stinky. I have the fondest memories of summer drives. There will be no late-night cruises to Dairy Queen for gossip sessions, no rolling the windows down on a hot summer July night and no singing off-key to Taylor Swift at the top of my lungs.
Instead, I’ll be hopping on weekend trains to a new city and trying my best to look like I know what I’m doing when I clearly just got on the wrong-colored metro line. No car, no keys and no Stinky.
It feels weird leaving her behind. She’s been my freedom and my independence. But this summer, I get to explore somewhere new. I get to explore new cities, taste new foods and hopefully not mess up my French too badly.
When I return, hopefully with a sun-kissed face and a slightly improved French accent, I’ll be greeted by an old friend in the driveway.
Thanks for the ride, Stinky. You did everything a girl could ask for.
Hang in there for me. I’ll miss you.
