My new car hit 10,000 miles today. I suppose this means that it is no longer new, but I cannot fathom nor accept how this is so. Febuary is just around the corner, and the Civy came into my life in May, which means that in the course of nine months, I’ve driven ten thousand miles. In other words, I drive (or have driven) more than 1,000 miles a month—more than 250 miles a week.
Obviously, this is just too many miles. But, this is also the curse of Los Angeles, and the result of how I’m living in this city—hurtling about, back and forth, mountains to coast. I love my little town by the beach, but unfortunately all the people I love do not, in fact, live within its boudaries (if only I could make them!). So, to be social—and I do like being social—I drive. I drive to work and I drive home to see my family, and I drive across town to see friends and movies and try new restaurants, and suddenly I’m staring at four zero’s on the dashboard.
I remember in May that the 0 on the odometer meant possibilities, and the ability to get there, wherever it was (such good gas milage, I had). I suddenly could take road trips, wanted to take road trips, to get out and about and hurtle up the coast and back down. It feels mildly depressing that in this time, to earn these miles, the furthest I’ve ventured in the little white car is to San Diego and back. Apparently, I have wracked up my 10,000 miles simply by running in circles around a very big city.