I Love My Mini Cooper

I love my Mini Cooper. I have adored her even though Hamlet’s witches put spell on her. Which is another way of saying she’s cursed.

I had wanted a Mini Cooper for years. Years and years. It’s short and fat and squat and more cuddly than two thousand pounds of metal have the right to be. And it doesn’t look like every other car.

A few years back, I mentioned my Mini love to my friend Mike, and what do you know? He went out and got himself one. Just like that. I was jealous, I’ll admit it. Who likes a car and runs out to get the thing without hemming and hawing and debating and … Who does that?

Why did Mike get a Mini? Why not me?

Of course, the only person keeping me from getting a Mini Cooper was me. I knew that then as I know it now. But jealousy’s not a rational thing.

Now, in October 2009, I finally bought one. I walked onto the lot knowing I wanted a bright blue model, but in the evening light the car looked purple. For the uninitiated, purple is a stupid color for anything, including cars, fruit, flowers, Barney, and velvet pantsuits worn by Prince. So I set my sights on a sky blue car that reminded me of my grandma’s sky blue Volkswagen bug. A car this lovely deserved a name; I called him “Mini.” (I am a writer after all. My creativity knows no bounds.)

And then the day after I got the car, another driver smashed into Mini while Mini was stopped at a red light. My beloved Mini spent the rest of the month in the shop.

This past April, Mini was involved in a second major accident (caused by yours truly), and it spent another month in the shop. The day the car came back from the shop, someone smashed two of the windows and stole my GPS. It cost eight million dollars to have those windows replaced. That’s an approximation of the amount, but it’s not far off. A month later someone smashed in the back window, apparently for the hell of it. That window cost a mere four million to fix. Then two weeks later Mini overheated.

Oh, and post-accident the right headlight, driver-side door, and glove box weren’t functional since only four people on the planet know how to fix a Mini and none of those four people live in Colorado. A full five months after the second accident (the one I caused), the body shop took my car back for a week and figured out how to complete the repairs without the help of one of those four people.

Finally. Mini was looking GOOD. Real good. No wonder I love my Mini Cooper! She’s amazing!

And she stayed amazing for a sum total of 3.4 seconds. Unfortunately, someone struck Mini while he was parked in the body shop’s lot. And, no, I am not kidding.

(to be continued)