I took my Corolla to the dealership today for a biannual oil change/check-up. When I bought my car, or rather, fought tooth or nail against getting screwed in the cornhole by a pack of hungry, drawling, trickster Toyota dealers, they threw in a lifetime supply of free oil and filter changes. Probably to balance out some other way they were robbing me so blind I couldn't even see that they were robbing me. Can't beat free, so I drove Gilda down to South 1-35 at Stassney, a hood I rarely haunt, and handed her over to the lube goons for some lovin'.
During the three hours that I sat, patient and ladylike, in their holding pen, complete with free gym sock coffee and the latest torture/primary news from CNN issuing its subliminal buzz, I noticed that every car entering and exiting the drop-off bay was a late model Corolla like mine. Their singular, sensible drivers would hand over the keys to the maroon-shirted service personnel and huddle inside for THREE ENTIRE HOURS, not talking, maybe reading the paper.
It was then that I decided to turn my attentions to the gentle beauty of sameness. The Corolla is a boring car. It's faultless, bland, productive, demure, deliberately uncool. It does its job, which is to get you from point A to point B with minimal annoyance. It is trusty and dependable, affordable. It comes in a wide variety of bland, unoffensive colors like white, tan, burgundy, and dark gray. Mine is green, a color they only offered in Model Year 2005. Some drivers jazz it up with a spoiler or faux woodgrain dash paneling.
It is the car driven by so many Americans that it defies a sense of identification. Two people on the polar opposite ends of the coolness spectrum (that would be me and my ex-stepdad) can drive the same car and not be defined by it. You would be smart to buy a Corolla. They are long-lasting, simple, and you never have to think about them. They bring the best parts of marriage to car ownership.
Part of my quest in being a capital-W Writer is finding simple gifts in ordinary and/or irritating circumstances. Being trapped at Shitheel Toyota for over three hours could easily be an occasion for bitching and complaining, but instead I decided to enjoy the multitude of oil-thirsty Corollas (and two Priuses) rolling past, waiting to get raised upon the lift. This is what connects me to other people. Corollas unite.