The First Time

SJG: Late bloomer

The SJG was a late bloomer.  I didn't do it till senior year of college.  Even though everyone else had already done it, I wasn't in any rush.  I figured, I'll do it when I want to do it, and not a second before.  But finally, the big day came when I couldn't live with myself anymore.  I knew if I ever wanted to get anywhere in life, it was time to break down and do it, get it over with, bite the bullet, insert your favorite cliche.  Future hubby was so patient with me, too.  He never pressured me.  He said, "When you're ready, I know a guy in Culver City, my dad's cousin.  He'll give you a good deal."  And so, off we went to C.C., with my hard-earned cash, the accumulation of baby-sitting gigs and numerous part-time stints at College Book Store in Westwood.  After walking to UCLA for two years, spending a year abroad, and biking everywhere till my thighs deserved their own flag; after bumming rides, taking the bus and borrowing my mother's tank and denting it more than once, it was time to buy my first car, forever referred to as the crappy tin can that couldn't go over 50 mph without overheating.  But I loved it so, that white Datsun, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.  I loved it with all my heart and soul, even though it cost me a bundle to keep it running.  You always love your first one.  You forgive all the shortcomings.  You forget the bad stuff.  Like the way the gaskets blew and the windshield clouded up when it rained, making visibility nil.  And you treasure your last time with your first one, how smoke engulfed it, entirely, as you drove it, slower than slow, down Santa Monica Blvd. to its final resting place.  The mechanic wanted it, flaws and it.  He wanted to buy it, restore and call it his own.  Crazy romantic.  I couldn't deny him such joy.  By nature, I'm a giver.  It's true.  No matter how many cars you own or lease, damage or resell, you never forget your first car.  I know I didn't. So tell me, what was yours like?