Why I Want a Car

On some gray morning, wedged into a packed U-Bahn with my forehead nearly touching the window, I start thinking about a car. My friends in the city will tell me it’s stupid, that I don’t need it, that the transit is fine. They’re right in theory. But they’re not the ones standing here.

There’s this thing about living in the city that nobody mentions—the way you end up following everyone else’s rules. Take the train they tell you to take. Walk the route they tell you to walk. Wait. Wait some more. You’re part of the system, and the system hums along whether you like it or not.

A car sits in my head as the opposite of that. Not as a vehicle exactly, but as a small refusal. The ability to say no—to leave when I want, to go where I want, to not be tethered to someone else’s schedule. Even if I’d only use it once a week. Even if it doesn’t make logical sense. The wanting isn’t logical.

I get it now. It’s not about the car. It’s about the feeling that I could have it if I decided to. That I’m not locked into this one particular way of living just because I happen to be standing in a crowded train in a city. The car is just a symbol for taking my life back into my own hands, whatever that means.