Yesterday my brother told me that my car perfectly symbolizes my lifestyle. It’s an Outback, and it requires constant maintenance due to “considerable” wear and tear. The fenders are red from the rocks of the Southern Utah desert. The rear bumper is falling off due to an incident with a hungry bear two years ago. The cargo box resting on top is full with gear that wouldn’t fit inside the car. Stickers that read “Got Balls?” and “Snowboarder” are worn and peeling. Dog slobber coats the rear left window, and a mud-covered mountain bike is strapped to a rack on the rear. The car definitely stood out amongst the newer sedans and clean sports cars in the lot. It rested in the last available spot in the crowded San Diego lot, and I had to park it at an awkward angle so it’d fit.
I had to thank my brother for the compliment.