A personal space is a place where one can go to be alone, it is a place that one knows like the back of their hand, and it is a place where many memories are made, some are trivial, some are heartfelt. A personal space is defined as “The physical space immediately surrounding someone, into which any encroachment feels threatening to or uncomfortable for them.” (dictionary.com) My personal space is my car. It is a very intimate, meaningful space in which I have made many fond memories. My car is a place where I feel like the king. It is my domain and I rule over it. The first thing one notices about my car is the astonishing good looks. That is really the first thing anyone notices about my car because it is to eye catching. With a sparkling patriot blue paint job with a big, bold, off-white racing stripe down the center, accompanied by two miniature racing stripes along the sides near the bottom, my car is definitely a sight to see. The way the sunlight plays off the beautiful chrome accents are simply stunning: glistening and shining perfectly from every angle.
The vinyl hard top exterior has a certain white color that blends flawlessly with the racing stripes that make them pop. The special edition pony interior is nothing to be looked over. A scene of a stampede of wild mustangs was carefully embossed on to the steel-blue leather seat backs and it is topped of with a simple, yet elegant jewel that reads the word “FORD”. They are comfortable too. You will never want to get up once you settle in to one of its heated seats. Under the hood is a different story. The car is old so one can expect difficulties, but mine seems to have more that your average. Overheating is a common occurrence when driving my car. When the car over heats it has a very distinct, very bad smell, one that is linked with countless bad memories full of anger, worry and hate: the smell of dirty, over cooked bacon with a hint of warm, over cooked antifreeze.
I have learned to dread that familiar scent because when that haunting smell wafts from the wheel well and makes its way into the cab of the car and finally into my nose, I know that nothing good can come from it. I know that I am going to have to pull off the road and assess the situation for the wellbeing and future of my car. Not all the smells it emitted were bad, however. There is a warm, loving smell it has as well. Insert the key into the ignition and rotate it and you will smell the dear smell of gasoline. Not just any old gasoline smell, however, my car’s gasoline fume output resembles that of a boat. Smelling it reminds me of summer when we would boat out on the lake with friends, wake boarding with the wind in your hair and enjoying each other’s company. There was a point in time where I had lost my IPod and since I don’t like the radio I decided to listen to CD’s. The only CD I could find was Frank Sinatra’s “Songs for Swing’in Lovers”. This is a very classy selection that one would never get tired of, just like my car.
I listened to that CD over and over a countless number of times. With every turn of the ignition Frank’s sweet, golden pipes would fill the car, masking the engine sounds with soothing saxophone melodies, and the road sounds with peaceful, relaxing trumpet. His voice was smooth as silk every time it played in my car. Together, Frank and I would get from place to place as happy as can be. When I think of my car I think of Frank Sinatra. Seated behind the large, bus like steering wheel is where I feel at home. Crafted out of wood, finished with lacquer and detailed with brass studs, my car’s steering wheel is a good accent to any automobile’s décor. It has a very powerful grip that gives the driver the sense that they are seated in a very fast car. However false that notion may be, it still feels like it should be a fast car as long as you aren’t moving. Sights, sounds, smells and tactile things are not all that my car is.
It is also a memento for very many dear memories. In that car is where I, as well as my best friend, first learned to drive. In that car is where my dad and I shared countless hours together, doing our best to fix up the car’s aesthetics. Most of the time we spent on that car went into undoing what we had done to it because we ended up doing it wrong the first time more often than not. In that car is where I had my first kiss. That was a special memory that my car will forever remind me of. In that car is where I got pulled over for the first time. At that time my car, due to renovations, only had one seat in it, no seatbelts, no taillights and no speedometer, and to top it all off I had forgotten to put the registration in the car. Why my parents let me drive the car while it was lacking all of those vital things is still a question that I have not been able to answer. By use of my wit and charm I was able to talk my way out of a ticket, but that is an experience I will never forget.
My car is a very special car, unlike any other on the road. Many fond memories have been made in that car, some of which are milestones of my life. The memories made in my car have helped shape me into the person I am today. I have learned many timeless lessons within the confines of my car. From spending time in my car I am better equipped for emergencies on the road. It has served as sufficient transportation for mile after mile. Whether I am actually on my way to some place or just cruising around to show it off, my car is a sweet ride. It is a very intimate, personal space that I can share with others easily.