My Only Child
5 months ago, 11 Jan 13:29
To be honest, there’s only two reasons I’ve ever wanted a credit card. To travel easier, and for my car. The first is pretty self explanatory. I’ve never been able to truly understand people who don’t like travel. How can you not want to see new places and cultures? What does that even mean? How can you watch a movie and not want to see the canals of Amsterdam, or the headiness of Havana, or the beauty of the Kalahari in real life? My cousin Tony is one of those guys. He’s the ‘I’m ok if I do and ok if I don’t’ type. Trust me, we’re working on him. Every day. The second reason is maybe a little harder to explain. Mostly because, like a doting and annoying parent, I believe my car is no ordinary car. It’s the BEST car. Yes, I said parent. How do I describe my relationship with my car? So generally, I get attached to inanimate objects. I don’t know if it is because a lot of my formative years were spent as an only child, and in a foreign country, and so I basically created my own joys, and when I wasn’t in school, my own friends. I name all my teddy bears, laptops and flash disks. My bed, to this day, is as important to me as a living breathing thing is. Like a friend with the best hugs. My bed is legit one of the places I feel safest in. So you can imagine what happened when, a couple of years ago, I got my first car. Aside from spending weeks trying to figure out what name would be perfect, I also got extremely invested in his running smoothly. Here’s the thing though, and any car owner will tell you right off the bat, having a car is like having a child. Not in the carrying on your legacy and diaper changing type of way, but in the way my other cousin Ian describes it – it’s like having a hole in your wallet. A big hole. Cars need money. And that’s why I wanted a credit card. You see, from the get, my car needed more than just a little TLC. The engine was busted so I had to get a new one. The one I got wasn’t the right type for this model. Then the shock absorbers had to be replaced, and the tyres, because this stud hadn’t seen any action in two years. And then there was the throttle…I’m going to say, metre? And so on, and so forth. But finally, when I got over my fear of driving (this is a whole different post about driving school for another day) and got behind the steering wheel, there was an indescribable connection to this trusty piece of fluid, purring machinery whom I eventually dubbed SB. Therein lay the catch. I’m a freelancer, so bank loans aren’t really an option for me, you see? And because of that, neither ...
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