Paradise and dashboard lights.

I think the first time I felt like I was cheating on her was a couple of months ago, when I went home for an unexpected long weekend.

My Subaru, a 1994 gem we found used, and the only car I've driven for ten years since, had an expired inspection sticker. Not wanting to risk being pulled over, I rented a car for the five hour drive.

They were supposed to give me the second-cheapest model. Something "like a Ford Focus," the Web site promised. I knew I wouldn't fall in love with one of those. When I picked up the car, however, they had to upgrade me to a brand new Chevy Impala. The kind in rap songs.

At first I resisted. I grumbled about gas mileage. I nervously took turns Granny-style... slow and wide. I fumbled with the controls. Apparently, sometime around the year 2000, they started replacing every word on every knob or dial with a picture. My temperature controls, for instance, say radical things like "heat, vent, a/c, max a/c, off" The Impala's controls were like cave drawings: grill, fan, ice cube, closed circle, open circle...

Lulled by the six-speaker stereo system, slowly I began to soften. The lumbar support felt good on my back. The big engine accelerated smoothly. There was a lot of room everywhere for my bags. Cruise control went from being a vaguely annoying oddity to something I wasn't sure how I lived without. And the new car smell, my god, the smell.

And so began, around mile 300, the nagging idea set in that I'd have to join this century and get a new car soon. My Subaru, approaching 181,000 miles, is rusting. The rumbling engine sounds just a little tired. It needs new brakes.

I've been... reluctant, to say the least, about this purchase for many reasons. (Not the least of which is that it's an expensive ordeal involving a run-in with a possibly pushy salesman in a big gold watch.)

But the main reason is that trading in my first car really will be the end of an era. So many memories are wrapped up in that teal hunk of plastic and steel.

Passing my driving test. The first place I drove myself: a softball game soon after I turned 16. Taking my friends to the movies. The way Cara said it has a comforting smell. Listening to oldies on a tinny radio in the garage while waxing it with my dad. Mix tapes. Being driven to Prom. Packing it to the hilt and heading off to college. Road trips. Drive-in movies. Defending my tiger print steering wheel cover. Digging out of the snow. Taking my grandma Christmas shopping... Everyone I love has ridden in it. Getting a new bumper with cash after my friend's lesbian roommate hit me while parallel parking. Trowa's car seat. Navigating downtown Chicago traffic and laughing because my out-of-state plates helped me get away with a lot. Speeding tickets. Five-hour drives with a kitten on my lap. Countless tearful goodbyes.

When I first got the car, the road stretched way out ahead of me. It's good to look back at how far I've traveled. It'll be good to see where I'm going next.

Who wants to take a ride?