I got my first car while I was in college, shortly after I learned to drive. 

(Yes, I didn’t learn to drive until I was twenty.  I was not the typical teenager dying to get my license and counting down until my sixteenth birthday.  Chicago is a very difficult city to drive, and I did not have the greatest teachers (Love you, Mom and Dad!).  The biggest thing though was simply that you don’t need to drive in a city like Chicago.  I took public transportation a lot.  It wasn’t until I moved to Florida – land of the interstate, strip mall, and no sidewalks – that driving seemed necessary to me.  And then there was the little hurdle of a car.)

My first car, a Buick century from an aunt that passed away, was named Waldorf.  Waldorf and Bernie are sort of my default names for things.  I don’t think I’ve ever had a fish that wasn’t named Waldorf or Bernie.  Obviously you see why I can’t have children.

Waldorf was a pretty good car for a free one.  The summer between my junior and senior year, he started to have problems.  I left him in St. Pete with a mechanic and relied on a grad student completely infatuated with me for getting around while I finished my research at Florida State. 

(I do not suggest the manipulation method of transportation unless you are positive you will never see this person again.  Particularly do not attend graduate school at the same place.)

It took a while to figure out that the computer needed to be replaced, but once it was he was fine again.  You couldn’t convince my grandparents of that though.  At the very first inconvenience, they started the “he’s unreliable” worry tangent.  My grandmother had probably been saving that since I was born.  I’ve learned to not try too hard to talk them out of these worries, there’s just another one waiting to be chewed on.

This one stuck, despite months of good driving.  Perhaps it was because the driver’s door only opened from the outside.  So, for my 22^nd birthday/graduation present, they bought me a car.

I named her Veronica.  For Veronica Lodge, from the Archie comic books.  Because what else does a spoiled brat get for a graduation present but a car?

(Some people have pointed out that spoiled brats get slightly different cars than base model Corollas, but I have to say I felt quite the princess having a brand-new car.)

(BTW, my grandparents are the coolest ever in that they let me gift Waldorf to another friend in college who needed a car for part-time jobs.  Luke had Waldorf for about 3-4 more years.)

I will admit, there were a few perks I wish Veronica had.  Cruise control probably being the biggest as I drove between Tallahassee and St. Pete at least once a month during the year I obtained my M.S. degree.

But for the most part, I loved her like crazy.  I never seriously thought of replacing her.  Putting that transmission in her meant I was going to drive her another five years and I was happy with that – chipped paint, broken mirror, and all.

I guess something I can’t convey well here is that in real life, I speak of her just like a person and there isn’t anyone who’s known me more than a week who didn’t know who Veronica was.  I suppose I could convey that by blogging various conversations about my car, but this place is boring enough don’t you think?

Anyway, once it became public knowledge I had to get a new car, the big question in everyone’s mind was not what, but who.  What was I going to name the new one?

Originally I thought I would name her Betty, Veronica’s down-to-earth counterpart.  But this new car is glitzier than Veronica.  A ton of things that were options in 1997 have become standard.  It just didn’t seem right.

So I give you… Sophia.