I Totaled My Car Yesterday.

I keep having to tell people I'm fine. Because they keep asking. Which is nice, because it's nice to know that they care about my well-being. So to get this out of the way first off: I'm fine.

Well, physically. Emotionally I'm a little iffy. I could use a good stiff drink. And my car deserves a viking funeral, because god damn it, Blaze was a fucking warrior.

I did not crash my car. Let's clear that up first. She fell apart on me. Here I am, going 60 on the highway, and the a-frame decides that's a great time to break. So my passenger side wheel spun sideways until it was a right angle to my car.

All I could do was keep her straight while she rolled to a stop. Admittedly it wasn't scary, and it didn't feel as bad as it was. I remember saying.

"Fucking seriously, a flat tire right now? I'm trying to get to work." Because that's what it felt like. It didn't feel like my frame breaking. It didn't feel like it was dangerous. It felt inconvenient at best.

So, before I got out of the car, my biggest concern was that I was in the high speed lane, and my car would not move. I couldn't get the wheels to turn. I was stuck, in the high speed lane, at 11:45 in the morning. So, after a tearful call to my parents going "help, I'm pretty sure I blew a tire." I got out of the car to talk to a woman who was walking over to make sure I was ok.

And I walked around to look at the tire to see just how bad it was.

And that's when I realized that it was bad.

That my car was most definitely totaled. Metal ripped away from metal, transmission fluid leaking across the road. And all I could do was look up at this woman who'd been nice enough to park her car and cross two busy lanes of traffic to make sure I was ok and I had called someone, and say: "And this is going to need to get towed."

I did thank her for stopping, after I got over the initial shock of how bad it was. She didn't stay, but a volunteer fireman did, parking his truck behind my car and directing traffic so no one slammed into me. While we waited for my dad, and the tow truck, and the state police to come and do actual traffic control.

I stood on the median crying. Trying not to cry in front of other people. When my boyfriend called from his work to make sure I was ok I was bawling. My mother talked to me and told me that it was ok, I was ok, so I didn't need to cry.

But I did.

Because my car was not.

My car that I basically stole from my parents. Because they bought it for them, and I just kept using it. Until when I went off to college for my sophomore year they said "take the Hyundai."

That Hyundai that I affectionately named Blaze, because the name just sounded right.

Blaze was my first car. And she was with me through some of the hardest points in my life. College was hard, my boyfriend was here, and school was two hours away and I wanted to be in both places all at the same time. Blaze and I made the two hour trip every weekend. I came back home for the weekend, and went back to school when it was over. I cried to that car, sobbed, screamed, spoke my fears into the darkness, rested my head against the steering wheel and cried. Spoke to her like she could hear me.

If I had known that yesterday would be the last time I'd get to take her somewhere, it might have been different.

Blaze saved my ass several times. And I know that sounds stupid, because Blaze didn't do anything, I did. Your car is an extension of yourself.You tell it what to do, and if it can, it does it. But Blaze stopped on a dime when I wasn't paying attention until I'd almost hit someone. Blaze drove on glare ice, through two feet of snow, through torrential rain, and never once did I go off the road. Blaze kept me on the highway this winter when I had to slam on my breaks because everyone in front of me did, and I slid, wrenching the car into the other lane, and spinning across two lanes of traffic until Blaze gentled to a stop.

Blaze kept straight on the highway, short a wheel and spraying transmission fluid. Coasting to a stop instead of throwing me across another lane of traffic and into a guard rail.

Blaze was a warrior.

And I'm sad. So, very, stupidly, sad. Because It's so dumb to get attached to a car. And I knew, I always knew, that I would drive that car until it died. It was unspoken. My parents were jealous of the car, because it was awesome. She just ran. She always ran. She was comfortable, and smooth, and reliable.

When I started calling Blaze mine ,which was sometime during my Sophomore year of college she had a little over 150k miles on her. I made a goal in my head.

"Please Blazey, just make it to 200k and I'll be happy."

And four years later she did. A couple months ago we rolled over to 200k on the way home from work. And I was happy.

And so I can't be upset. She was everything I wanted. She waited until she met the goal I'd set. And she kept me safe.

People keep telling me that I was lucky I didn't lose control. But the car never even felt out of control. Everything just happened. And people keep telling me "someone was watching out for you."

And maybe they were. I've got a lot of someones who could be watching out for me.

And maybe it was circumstantial. The wheel went completely sideways, so it couldn't turn, it couldn't pull me into the other lane.

And instead of thanking the people who might be watching out for me. I'm sitting here thanking Blaze.

Because she has always been there for me, when no one else has. So if it's her time to go, then it's her time.

And I'm glad it was yesterday on a busy highway in Vermont, than when I was in Worcester three weeks ago. Or two weeks ago when my boyfriend cut his fingers on a lawnmower I drove behind the car that had him in it to the hospital. Or even five minutes before, when I was on the bigger highway.

Blaze picked the right place to fall apart. the easiest place, maybe even one of the safest places.

Even up until the end she was keeping me safe.

And I can't be upset about that. She pushed, and she pushed until she couldn't push anymore.

But it doesn't stop me from feeling like I have to grieve. I spent four years of my life with that car. My hands gripping the steering wheel, my voice raising to sing, my music making the mirrors shake. She has seen everything, from sobs, to screams, to laughter, to sex. She has been a friend, a confidant. And yes, that's crazy, because she isn't sentient. She can't listen. She isn't a she.

But she was mine. And I love her. And I felt safe driving her. She was my third home.

And one day later it feels a hell of a lot more real than it did yesterday.

My Blaze is gone. I'll never drive her again. She's ridden her last mile.

And I'm happy that I got 50k of them from her.

And even though it was a little scary and stressful, and I was late for work, I'm happy I got her last one too.

Time to look for a new car.

It's just the start of a new chapter, right?

In other news, anyone know of good cars I should be looking at?