The Sunday Steep #9: Why driving a 20-year-old car feels like freedom

Plus: announcing BevyBox, a curated gift box for tea lovers, crafters and creative souls!

Oct 06, 2024

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I’ve owned a new car exactly once in my life, leased in the early days of my divorce. At the time, I told myself that I needed a brand-new car in order to guarantee safe and reliable transportation - but really, I know I could have achieved that for a fraction of what I ultimately spent. I think, in retrospect, that I was actually trying to convince myself (and others) that I was much more okay than I actually was. Maybe the immaculate exterior of my shiny black car would mask my chaotic, messy interior life. Perhaps, in fact, it would transform me into another person entirely.

I went to the dealership with modest intentions - I wanted something new, yes, but basic, I thought. Well, you know how it goes. Somehow I was convinced that I needed the “sport” trim, and the winter-driving package, and gee, a panoramic moonroof sure did sound nice…multiple upgrades later, I walked out of the dealership as the somewhat-stunned driver of a brand-new, sporty Jeep Cherokee.

Don’t get me wrong, though: I was definitely excited. With my kayak strapped to the top, it seemed I could inhabit a brand-new identity as an independent, outdoorsy, financially secure and very put-together single woman.

Here’s what I learned pretty quickly: I am not meant to drive a new car. I’m hard on cars, especially in low-stakes situations. Put me on a highway and I’m alert and attentive, both hands on the wheel at 9 and 3. But in a driveway, drive-thru, or parking lot? I’m a mess. I clip rear-view mirrors, drive over curbs, bump up against dividers, scrape corners, back into trees: if there’s a slow-motion mishap to be had in a car, I’ve had it.

Before returning my Jeep at the end of the lease, I took my car to a body shop to have it evaluated for a possible warranty claim. The owner of the body shop walked around my car muttering to himself in disbelief over the multiple dings, scrapes, and dents in its body. At the end of the evaluation, he just looked at me and silently shook his head in disgust.

Not only am I a low-speed menace behind the wheel, but I simply don’t appreciate a car’s bells and whistles enough to make a high price tag make sense. No matter what its age or condition, when I get into a new-to-me car I look around, think “hmm, okay” and adjust my expectations accordingly. So within a couple of days, all those neat and ‘necessary’ features of my new Jeep just felt like wallpaper; barely noticeable anymore.

What I did notice, however, was the painfully-high payment. I could technically afford it, but there were plenty of times that I found myself wishing I felt free to pass up a freelance assignment or that I didn’t feel stuck working the job that had made it possible to buy something I didn’t really value to begin with.

So after I turned in the Jeep at the end of my lease, I drove right to a small dealership in town and paid $5000, in cash, for a 2005 Subaru Forester: a delightfully boxy and be-windowed grocery-getter with huge windows, zero blind spots, and a sweet 6-CD changer.

Bonus: it was even easier to hoist my kayak on top of her, all by myself.

The Subaru took me on many thousands of miles’ worth of adventures, and five years and many life changes later, it’s still sitting in the driveway.

And though we’ve looked at buying a newer car, every time I consider the cost, I balk. The truth is, I just don’t care enough about cars to spend tens of thousands of dollars on another one unless I absolutely have to.

Last year Owen drove the Subaru to school every day, and I mostly took over driving Eric’s BMW - also not new, but a lot fancier than the Forester.

But as soon as Owen left for college, I started driving the Subaru again, and within a day or two of driving her, I’d eased right back in. Now, all her little quirks are wallpaper again, which I’m sure is just the way I’d feel about the perks of a newer car - only without the painful price tag.

Months in a high-school parking lot didn’t do the Subaru any favors: she’s now scraped and dinged in addition to rust-spotted and rather rattly. But I simply don’t notice as I’m driving her around.

I think so little about my car, in fact, that it only occurs to me to second-guess my decision to keep driving her when I’m around people with nicer cars. I’ll pull into a parking lot surrounded by shiny, later-model vehicles, and feel a flush of sheepishness: what does it say about me that I still drive a beater in my late 40s? Will people think I’m hard-up, unsuccessful, broke?

Then I consider how little I actually care about what my car looks like, or what features it sports, or indeed, what other people might believe it means about me. I think about how much I value choosing the kind of work projects I want to take on, and spending my time doing things that aren’t necessarily income-generating, and how many hours of my time and energy I’d have to trade to pay for a car I don’t really want anyway.

I’ve heard it said that money buys options. And to some degree, that’s true - but there’s a flip side, too. Needing to earn money to pay for convenience or luxuries reduces options, too, curtailing our freedom to choose how and when and why we work. It’s a reality we all live within, and sometimes those luxuries and conveniences feel worthwhile. But when something doesn’t feel worth trading off my time and energy to buy, opting out seems like the only logical - in fact, the only liberated - thing to do.

Next spring, Clara will have her driver’s license, and the Forester will likely become her means of transportation. At that point - or very possibly, some point before it - we will again be car shopping, and I’ll need to decide how much life energy in the form of earnings I’m willing to trade for a vehicle that I will likely not ever care too much about. Maybe we’ll buy another older car, or maybe I’ll decide something a little newer is worth it to me. Either way, I’ll be sure to consider what freedom I’ll be giving up to make the purchase.

For now, driving my 2005 Subaru just feels like the right choice.

In fact, every time I climb into my scratched, scraped, dinged-up and dented old girl, it feels like freedom.

More about wealth, freedom, and what we value…

In a recent episode of The Tea’s Made podcast, I talked with farmer and author Shannon Hayes about how she defines wealth. Her answer? Pure gold:

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Like what you heard? You can listen to the whole episode here.

In my cup…

I’ve been drinking a lot of Meadow from Smith Tea lately as an afternoon herbal. Chamomile and rose petals are welcome any time of the year, but rooibos gives this blend a heartier body that just seems to fit fall (while still remaining caffeine-free for after-2-PM sipping.) It’s a little bit sweet, smooth, and totally unique.

In my kitchen…

As a fledgling sourdough baker, at first I was a little overwhelmed by the amount of sourdough discard that was piling up in my fridge. (Discard is the starter you don’t ultimately use in your bread recipe; if you’re feeding your starter every day like I am, it can really add up quickly.) But I’m realizing that there are endless things to do with sourdough discard, and as I get more settled in my baking routine, I’ve been having just as much fun figuring out how to use it as I am making the bread!

The discard imparts a lovely tangy flavor and adds moisture to baking recipes and more. So far I’ve made corn muffins, focaccia, and naan (served with goat curry) with sourdough discard; I’ve also used discard to ferment my morning oatmeal. As I am working to reduce waste in the kitchen, I really get a kick out of figuring out creative ways to use ingredients that otherwise might have been, literally, discarded.

In this week’s episode of The Tea’s Made, I shared five kitchen routines that are making my life work right now, and I also shared my logic around the timing and frequency of different routines (including why I’m currently feeding my starter every day rather than leaving it in the fridge and feeding once per week.) Spoiler: it has a lot to do with my executive—functioning struggles and why sometimes, more frequent routines help me build habits better than less-frequent ones. Give it a listen, and let me know which kitchen routines are helping you stay on track right now.

Announcing: BevyBox!

The Tea’s Made podcast is on a bit of a break while I work on a very exciting new project: BevyBox, a new offering from my brick-and-mortar shop, Bevy Tea.

The BevyBox is a gift box for tea lovers, crafters, and creative souls, curated by yours truly! And I’m now accepting orders for the holiday 2024 season.

Each Just Sips BevyBox will contain a selection of my favorite tea, plus a tea accessory. You can also choose a Sip & Stitch box that will include craft supplies geared toward your fiber art of choice (yarn or thread). And all BevyBoxes will also include a print copy of BEVY, a beautifully-illustrated publication written and edited by me.

These boxes are customized to include your favorite kinds of tea and supplies for your craft of choice, and are created to deliver both value and delight.

I will be accepting orders in three different windows this holiday season. The first round of orders need to be received by 11:59 PM EST on October 20, 2024 and will ship by October 30, 2024. I’ll offer two additional ordering windows before Christmas.

Many of you have asked if it’s possible to support my tea shop with online orders, and I’ve worked hard to find a way to deliver a buying experience that will be as special as possible. Order your BevyBox today! And use the code TEA10 for 10% off.

That’s it for this week’s Sunday Steep, friends. I’d love to hear all about your kitchen routines. Also: when it comes to money, what does freedom mean to you? Are there things you just don’t value enough to trade your life energy for (and, like me, are you bad at low-stakes driving?) Leave a comment (or hit reply to this email) and let’s chat about it!