Requiem for a Camaro

So, those of you who know me in real life know how I feel about Jezebel, my Camaro. I love that car. All big and red and fast. It was very much a symbol of what I was when I bought her…recently divorced from a marriage that had gone terribly wrong, free, wild, painted and ready to be chased. Rarely caught, mind you…but often chased.

But you see, Camaros and infant carseats…two things that don’t go so well together. In all reality, I hadn’t driven her much in the last few years. I’d take her out and race her periodically, just to keep the engine clean…but she wasn’t getting driven nearly enough to justify the blueprinted engine. And once I got pregnant enough to show…I couldn’t even get in the car. After the boy was born, I’ve driven her maybe 4 times in the last 8 months.

So I found a dealer who will sell her for me on consignment. Even as I type, she sits on a car lot…facing a road, flooded by halogen lamps, awaiting the next person who will show her some open road. I’m gonna miss that car. A bit of me goes with Jezebel…even though it’s a bit I’m not using anymore, it’s still a bit that I’ll miss.

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