My husband and I returned last week from a 10-day beach vacation. We drove my car, Cozy. It was her first trip to the beach. I argued that we should take my husband’s vehicle. It was larger, more room for all our luggage. It was more experienced, having already taken a beach trip the summer before.

“We can’t put all the miles on my car,” my husband said. I conceded, grudgingly. My previous car, Curvy, was a beloved (but worn out) 17-year-old wreck by the time I traded her in for Cozy. I love how clean Cozy is…the fact that her leather interior is intact, not in shreds; the infotainment system as opposed to the cassette tape player; the cup holders (unstained, unsticky). I want to keep her pristine.

When my husband was behind the wheel, I reminded him that Cozy doesn’t like exceeding the speed limit, that Cozy hates passing semis, that Cozy might need to go through a carwash to get the bugs out of her grill.

“Nah,” my husband said. “She loves a good adventure!”

Back home again, after a thorough cleaning at the Tidewater Carwash Club, Cozy is resting in the garage…bits of sugary sand still sprinkled in her carpets. I imagine she is dreaming of high speeds, heavy traffic, and the feel of salt air against her windshield. She’ll stay home when we travel in September. The whole family’s going with us; so we’ll need my husband’s Jeep because of the third-row seats. Though Cozy will be left behind for that trip, she will be ready again for our fall journeys…crisp autumn breezes blowing against her sideview mirrors, colorful leaves fluttering in her wake.