Lavinia, the wonder car

I was never one of those people who had to name everything. I didn’t have imaginary friends – though I did have imaginary characters for all the stories whirling around in my head. Inanimate objects were just that, inanimate.

When I started driving my grandma’s car, we had an awkward relationship. The poor girl had been through some tough times. Scars were gouged into the fabric above the driver’s side window from cigarette burns. Little tiny ants crawled out of somewhere unknown each time I drove her. My screams when they unexpectedly crawled over my hands while steering could have shattered wine glasses. The whole car was subtly but definitely, damp. Even now, the smell of smoke still lingers faintly.

Lavinia, in all her autumnal glory

Lavinia, in all her autumnal glory

We went through serious tribulations together. Like the time her battery died, right before I had to be at work… And then kept dying, despite reviving her time and time again with defribbilators, aka jumper cables.

How could I not give her a name? So after existing in a sad nameless state for many years, Lavinia was finally christened.

Why this is awesome: Because unfortunately I was born into a universe where I don’t get to be a Disney princess and have a little twitchy-tailed animal sidekick. So Lavinia is my trusty steed, my chittering raccoon, my snarky chameleon.

She’s a bit sassy but she’s got my back. She beeps at me until I put my seatbelt on. If I leave my headlights on and open the door, she protests in a shrill tone that feels like it’s stabbing the inside of my sinuses.

And I in turn, am sure to give her only the finest of non-renewable resources to guzzle. When I get off the train going home, I yell, “LAVINIAAAA!” like Marlon Brando hollering for Stella. Except totally not as an abusive husband. I’m sure the other suited-up old men love this display of object affection.

Lavvy and I, we’re pioneers of the open road together.

 

Lavinia's also quite a fan of my many selfies

Lavinia’s also quite a fan of my many selfies

What would your car name be? Or anything else that plays a daily role in your life. Now, don’t go all Brave Little Toaster and start naming EVERYTHING, unless you’re prepared with a kit of googly eyes to really complete the deal. Because if you go over the top, you’re just a skip away from being that lady who married the Eiffel Tower.

Don’t be that lady. Or do. Like I’ve said, do what makes you happy, as long as you don’t hurt anyone else. Making their brain explode at your weirdness doesn’t count.

Love always,
Gabriele