Dude, Where’s My Car?
by Ken Arneson
2004-05-31 2:31

Eating breakfast Saturday morning, I took a peek out my front window. Then I stood up, walked over to the window, and stared out.

“Um…um…” I stammered. “Where’s my car?”

My car had been parked out on the street overnight, and now she was wasn’t there. Gone. Our eight years together came to an end, just like that.

I called the police and reported her stolen. But somehow it doesn’t feel like theft. It feels almost like she left on her own.

Frankly, our relationship had been rather rocky lately. I never told her, but I was secretly planning on replacing her with a younger model as soon as I landed a new job. Perhaps she sensed that. Perhaps she knew the end was near, and dumped me before I could dump her.

Or maybe it’s just one of those midlife crisis things. You know, one night you can’t get to sleep and you realize, “I gotta see the Indy 500 once before I die,” and so you just get up and leave for Will Carroll country.

The policeman said it’s not unusual to get your car back within a few weeks or so. Perhaps. But even if she returns to me, I have to face the truth. It’s been nice, I’ll always cherish the memories of our time together, but you know how it is. It’s sad, but our relationship is over.

This is Ken Arneson's blog about baseball, brains, art, science, technology, philosophy, poetry, politics and whatever else Ken Arneson feels like writing about
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