my car doesn't have a name or gender, but boy does it have personality. it's mute; the horn doesn't work. the left blinker is on crack; it flashes twices as fast as the right. it's stubborn. the hatchback refuses to stay up. it has been in and out of the shop the past two weeks and there is still work to be done, despite its new engine, front tires and brakes.

"you should just buy a new car," they all say.

and give this all up? no way.

this was my dream car. well, twelve years ago it was. the 1987 acura integra. cute and compact, shiny and sleek. with periwinkle velour seats and corduroy headrests, a car stereo and tape player, air conditioning and those pop-up lights, ahhh, you gotta love the pop-up headlights.

i was actually with my uncle when he bought it, and i thought, someday, someday i will have a car just like this one.

years later, i bought it from my aunt after he'd died -- way too young -- of cancer. kind of morbid, but not really. it almost seemed perfect in some way.

that car has been places. down to the border and up the coast. san diego, santa barbara, san francisco, portland, vancouver. it's driven through every fast food joint, past hundreds of billboards and into dark alleys. it's zoomed through glaring red lights and sludged its way through nearly stopped traffic.

and so much has happened within those four doors. we chased down breaking news. i sang at the top of my lungs. i spilled coffee on the seats. i lost belongings and found them again. i made out with a cute boy, pressed up against the driver's door. i even washed and waxed it occasionally.

it's not just sentimentality that has made me stay with the car. it's not an abusive boyfriend. i know its faults. it stopped being my dream car a long time ago. really, i could get rid of it any time if i wanted to, and i will. just not yet.