Summary

The author is dealing with grief by considering the impulsive purchase of a new Ford Explorer, using their emotional state and practical reasons as justification.

Abstract

The author is grappling with the emotional toll of cleaning out their late mother's house and stumbles upon a collection of personal letters, including one from their father, which triggers introspection about their own failed relationships. In an attempt to cope with these feelings of inadequacy and sadness, the author contemplates buying a new, large SUV,

WORKING THROUGH GRIEF

I’m Sad, So I’m Going to Buy Something I Don’t Need and Can’t Afford

It’s the American way.

Cleaning out my mom’s house alone is something I never really thought about in advance. I don’t know if I thought it would just magically happen or what, but it’s a Herculean task that’s destroying what tiny scraps of mental health I had to begin with.

I think I’ve finally found the last ticking time bomb — a cache of letters hidden in the back of an underwear drawer. Most of them are from my mom’s parents when she moved to Ohio from Kentucky in 1946 to attend beauty school. She was 17 years old.

But one of them is a love letter to her from my dad. Just one, but one is enough.

I, the perpetrator of two failed marriages and exactly zero successful relationships (including even friendships), can’t read that letter without wondering what their secret was. And of course, there is no secret. I’m just a defective human being who can’t feel any good emotions, only the bad ones.

Anyhoo, I’m going to salve that particular wound by buying a giant truck.

The problem with “test driving” a vehicle is that, once you get behind the wheel your brain whispers, “Yessss, my precious,” and it’s all over.

All that self-talk about negotiating, and demands, and walking away if the deal isn’t good enough — that’s complete horse shit. You came, you saw, you bought.

Please don’t bother me right now because I’m busy rationalizing my decision. My current SUV needs brakes and rotors, and will soon need tires (again — what is with me and tires, am I driving in NASCAR in my sleep?). Also, I have the last Ford Z Plan PIN I will ever have, which expires in April. It would be shame to waste that, right? Right?

I’ve always wanted a big SUV. The Ford Explorer has third-row seating (for all of my non-existent friends), and if I’m in an accident, I’ll probably win.

Also, I need to get rid of my mom’s truck, which is sitting in her garage on flat tires with a dead battery. As her dementia progressed, she refused to let me touch it and it wasn’t worth the fight. So I need the dealership to come tow it away and put it towards my completely insane purchase.

I don’t know how to sell my mom’s truck on my own, I don’t want strange men coming to look at it, and honestly, I can’t handle one more thing. Just please take it and go.

When I got behind the wheel of the Explorer, I felt like a small child. I had to spend five minutes adjusting the seat just so I could reach the pedals. I pulled out onto the road like the suicide bomber that I was and mentally told everyone to stay out of my way.

It’s fun when you’re not used to a vehicle and you tap the accelerator and lurch forward. Or when you barely graze the brakes and punch your torso into the steering wheel.

Cars don’t have shifting columns anymore, which is the dumbest thing I’ve ever encountered. They just have a giant button that you turn to put it in gear. Who in God’s name decided that this was an improvement?

I’m absolutely going to put the Explorer in drive and accelerate backwards into the car behind me.

“It drives pretty much like the Escape,” my sales guy lied to me. It drove nothing like the Escape, but since Ford decided to completely and utterly ruin my precious Escape, I don’t have a lot of choice.

No, I don’t want a Bronco. What am I, 25? Plus, have you seen the crash tests for the Bronco? No thanks.

Anyway, my biggest motivator for buying a giant truck that I can’t afford is that I’m sad. I’m sad and I deserve it. I work three jobs, this may be my last chance to ever own a new vehicle, and I’ll enjoy tooling down the road letting people think I’m a busy mom running errands.

Maybe I’ll strap a kayak to the top. Maybe I’ll toss some dirty soccer balls in the back.

Mostly I just keep repeating the words of my real estate appraiser who pulled up in a Lincoln Aviator. She showed me how the third row plopped down at the touch of a button, while I opened and closed the doors just to hear that expensive thunk.

“All of my kids are grown,” she said. “But I just wanted it.”

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