My sister graduated from High School when I was in 7th grade. My dad bought her a brand new car. Now, I don’t want to get into the details of promises that were made or broken between them-as you can probably guess, that as Gonzaleses, there was some sort of drama involved. However, the moment he bought her that car, he set a dangerous precedent with his other children: Joe and I both expected a car upon graduation.

That summer, Joe and I went to spend a month in Connecticut living with our dad. He, obviously, couldn’t take a month off of work, so, for the most part, we were left to our own devices. My dad’s apartment complex was directly across the street from the Mall and the local Walmart. The local Walmart was infinitely more interesting than the mall. We went everyday. The retired greeters all knew us by name. We loved it there.

In the parking lot of that Walmart was a Plymouth Neon. Color: Neon Yellow. It was there every single day, almost always in the same spot. I was in love. I knew that when I graduated, I had to have a Neon.

Now, there aren’t many people who can say that they have the same taste now as they did when they were 13. Although I made it clear to my father I wanted a Neon when I graduated, I don’t think he ever thought I would still want one, 5 years later. He was wrong. For 5 years I thought about my Neon. I watched as newer models came out, making the car smoother, sleeker and ever cooler. Yes, I wanted a safe sedan as my car. I was awesome even then.

When the day finally came, I was ready. I had already been to my local dealer. I lucked out because they had a blue Neon, that had been a driven about 5,000 miles by a couple of dealers, but still came with a full warranty. It was fully loaded, but in my price range because of the 5,000 miles. My dad was barely off the plane before we drove straight to the dealership and signed the papers. I finally had my Neon.

Technically, however, it wasn’t my first car. My mom had gotten me a 1989 Oldsmobile Calais when I first started driving and it was upgraded to a 1995 Nissan Sentra at the end of my Sophomore year. Those cars weren’t technically mine. They belonged to my mom and they were for schlepping my brothers around (not that I wasn’t allowed to do other things). My junior year, one of my friends gave me a hilarious bumper sticker and my mom refused to let me put it on the car. I remember being supremely disappointed.

The Neon, however, was mine and I could do whatever I wanted. I had just received a new bumper sticker at our International Thespian Society awards banquet.

It was my first bumper sticker and still my favorite.

I didn’t set out to cover the back of my car in bumper stickers, but once I started, I couldn’t stop. Over the years, some stickers have come off, some have faded, some have been replaced, but all of been loved.

This week, after bragging that my car has been running great, it died on me. While they figure out what the problem is, I’ve been driving Michael’s car. The last few days I’ve come to realize how much I’ve allowed my car and bumper stickers define me.

I love sitting at a stop light and watching the person behind me crack up at my bumper stickers. I’ve seen people take pictures. As I mentioned, a couple of weeks ago, some cute youngin’s made a sign. I’ve had guys ask my out at stoplights because of them. When I come out of a store, I usually find someone standing there reading them. It’s also a little known fact that Michael and I started talking because he asked me about my bumper stickers. It flattered me so much that he figured out it was my car, I couldn’t resist.

Driving Michael’s pristine car this week has made me feel melancholy. It’s hard for me to realize that I have let my car define me so strongly. I feel like it’s kind of ridiculous that I don’t feel like myself when I am driving around in someone else’s car. I should be defined by the things I do. It’s a lot harder to gauge that. The bumper stickers give instant gratification. I think I need to work a lot harder on myself and my life so that I know what defines me.

Besides bumper stickers.