After my conversation with JMPR President Joe Molina two weeks ago, I have been contemplating the idea of luxury, especially when it comes to the cars we drive. When I do the math in terms of hours, it’s obvious that my car is a huge part of my life: I spend more time with my Ford Fiesta than I do with my boyfriend. That’s love, but it doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s luxury.
My car bears the brunt of my anger more often than my boyfriend does, due mostly to traffic on the 10. I’ll park it under a tree at night only to find it covered in bird droppings the following morning. I consume coffee, juice, and, sometimes, entire personal pizzas in my car and leave all the trash in the passenger’s seat. I drive until the low fuel light beeps…twice.
And that doesn’t feel too luxurious.
“This would never happen if I had a Porsche,” I often mutter to myself, opting to blame my poor Fiesta for L.A. traffic, my general messiness, and the uncontrollable bowels of birds. It’s an abusive relationship to be sure, but when I stop to think about it, I know none of it is my car’s fault. It’s mine …