The first sellers, a married couple with a new baby, wanted to replace their car with a roomier mini-van. I asked for the year, mileage, and condition to get a baseline price before going for a test drive. With the husband at my right, and his toddler in his car seat, I nervously skirted around the block, worked the brakes, and checked the air conditioning before returning to their house. I went inside and offered 10% less than their asking price. They immediately refused and sent me on my way.

That same afternoon I stopped at a dealership to view a really low priced silver Forester. When I asked him why so low, he opened the driver’s side door and showed me the repaired damage. “But it has a great new paint job,” he pleaded. Not for me.

Another dealer kept me for two hours. With four different lots, we spent the first twenty minutes looking for the car. Once inside for a test drive, we stopped for gas. At the station, I opened the back hatch and almost broke my neck as the liftgate came crashing down on my head. Even though they offered me a fantastic “out the door” deal, I said no.

For over a month I called, test-drove, and plotted my options. I even started to look in other cities. Emotionally, I wasn’t ready. Nobody was going to decide for me that I deserved a new car. That I had to do for myself.

Instead of believing that I was getting older and more responsible, a friend suggested that I think of the car symbolizing my successful and fun life. I worked and reworked the numbers to calculate the exact impact on my spending. “I can afford this.” I’d say to myself to build trust in my income-making capabilities.

I let go of my Baby Blue, the Celica that brought me to California, the one that leaks from the sunroof, splits at her interior seams. The one that I knew exactly how to pack and when to refill. I became annoyed at the obnoxiously squeaky brakes that yell louder in the early morning dew and get irritated by the pool of sweat around my waistline from no air-conditioning.

And then came the fancy party at a Country Club. I spent the afternoon showering, painting my nails, applying make-up, and hot rolling my hair. I ironed my Thai silk scarf, reserved for special events. With dress pressed, shoes strapped, and my Balinese beaded purse in hand, I walked out the door and down to my rusted, low-to-the-ground, rattling, old vehicle. Deflated, I opened the car door, got in, and realized that this Cinderella deserved a new carriage. (CONTINUE...)