Mushaboom, Feist.

When I was 25 I bought my first car. Up until that point, I’d been driving the wheels off the one my parents had bought me in high school.

I’d just landed my first “real” job. Real in the sense that I didn’t have to work two other jobs on the side to pay my bills (which is what I had been doing up until then - a day job plus a waitressing job in the evenings). It still wasn’t very much, pay wise - but after years of being a broke college student, it felt like I’d won the lottery.

I sat down and worked out a budget. After all of my living expenses were covered, I had enough left to put a teensy bit in savings and still buy myself a car. The problem was, I didn’t want any car - I wanted my dream car.

A lot of people of our generation are guilty of this, I think. They want it all and they want it now.and for me, my all and now was a little red 3 series BMW.

After figuring in insurance and what I could afford as a monthly payment, I figured I could afford one that was 4-6 years old. I searched until I found the perfect one in candy apple red with a sunroof. I negotiated the entire deal all on my own, which I was proud of considering it was usually something I asked my dad to help with.

At the time, I had nothing else to pay for. Due to my previously sad income, I had defered my college loans for a few years and I shared a house and utilities with 4 girlfriends. Buying a car I couldn’t really afford otherwise was doable for those reasons.

I had named her Lady before I’d even signed my name on the purchase agreement. And as I drove her off the lot with every bit of my meager savings sunk into the down payment, I blasted this song as loud as it could go. With the sunroof back, the windows down and a smile as wide as my newly acquired debt plastered across my face.

Hearing Mushaboom always recalls that day that I picked her up, teetering on the edge or responsibility and feeling so damn grown to have bought myself that car.

Love,

M