Life By The Slice, The column - observations on life, relationships and humanity - sometimes humorous, sometimes serious, always from the heart.

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RELEASED AUGUST 18, 2003

You are what you drive

“You are what you drive ...”

So said the commercial that blared from the original speakers in my faded silver 1987 Pontiac that my family fondly calls “The Gray Ghost.”

To me, 1987 seems like yesterday. But I do the math and realize I’m driving a 15-year-old car. So much for yesterday.

The commercial repeated: “You are what you drive ...”

I looked at the cars all around me. The names of the newest models eluded me as I tried to decipher what might be coined “Oldsmobuick”- speak (as they called it in one of my all-time favorite movies, “Fletch”).

As I rounded a curve, dried-up sticky notes and a paper lunch bag slid under my legs. Coins and a lighter swished across the dash and plunked on the opposite side.

I reached for the trash, swerving a little as my fingers caught dead leaves and straw wrappers. How did this car get so messy?

“You are what you drive ...”

I turned off the radio, worried I might be just that.

The car chugged and contemplated dying as I accelerated. Noises of protest came from under the hood. At the same time, water that had leaked in and collected at the top of the rear window obeyed gravity and dripped onto the back seat.

I reminded myself I didn’t have a car payment, the insurance was cheap, and the smell of mildewed fabric could be vaporized with a bit of Febreze. Only occasionally did the car give up the ghost and temporarily become high maintenance.

“You are what you drive ...”

The words echoed in my mind. As the status-quo cars multiplied in the traffic that surrounded me, I thought about how many people choose a vehicle based on their personality.

Automobile manufacturers and their ad agencies profit by applying salve to an already wounded social conscience. They pound into us through daily affirmations that who we are is based on external appearances and material objects we need to own.

As I pulled to a stop in my driveway, I cringed at the loud squeal of the brakes. I killed the engine, then collected keys, purse, coat, gloves, mugs and quite a bit of the trash on the floor.

Arms loaded, I had to use my foot to close the door of The Gray Ghost since it didn’t catch the first time. I managed to do so without dropping so much as a paper napkin.

On the front porch, I emptied my arms, turned around and studied the old Pontiac.

“You are what you drive ...”

Does that mean I’m a trashy, groaning, thinking-about-dying, hanging in there most of the time, occasionally high maintenance, leaking, full of unimportant stuff, protesting yet for the most part reliable person?

Perhaps they are right.