Five years it's been.

Five years since I signed on the dotted line and drove off the dealership lot with my first brand-spanking-new car. The days of hand-me-down Hondas with torn leather seats and a dysfunctional gas gauge were over. Praise heaven! And low-interest payment plans!

The new car was a gift to myself for finishing school and getting my hands on one of those "real" jobs. The car was my first I'm-an-adult-now expenditure. Sure, I'd been paying rent, utilities and grocery bills for years. But the car - this was special. I was growing up (sniff, sniff).

I remember thinking, "Wow, by the time I pay off this car, I'll be nearly 30. That's so old."

Three weeks ago I mailed off my final car payment. I dropped that certified check into the mailbox, grinned widely with hubris and then remembered: "Shit. I'm almost 30."

Two weeks ago the title came. I fancied putting it in a frame and hanging in a place of importance - kind of like you do with your diploma when you first graduate from college and you're all proud of yourself and your "accomplishment" and then quickly you realize that you're not a doctor or a lawyer and nobody really cares to see your B.A. in English and besides, the economy stinks and you're not finding a job that relates in any way to your skill set so the diploma is truly nothing more than a highly overpriced piece of parchment.

I knew the title wouldn't stay behind glass - but it was the shiny silver lining in a dark time-defying cloud. If I had to deal with the reality that five years of my life had just blinked by, then I was going to revel in the one tangible product of those five years: I finally own something!

But then here comes that annoying adulthood troublemaker, Murphy's Law.

One week ago (you know, just after the car was officially mine) the brakes called it quits, forfeit their job and started begging for change near the turnpike on ramp. Immediately after, the driver's side tail light exhaled one final time, flickered and died right there on the back of my car. And, oh yeah, my inspection sticker is overdue.

Figures, I guess.

So off to the shop it goes with its list of maladies. Add "malfunctioning seat heater" to the list, too. I should have gotten that fixed years ago when the recall was first announced. But not experiencing any problems with mine - and being a generally lazy sort - I never took the car in.

Fast forward six or so months to see me, cruising along the highway on a cold winter afternoon, the seat heater/tush warmer doing its job under my rear. Then suddenly - a sharp, searing pain. Still driving, I attempted to lift my butt off the seat, away from whatever fire had apparently ignited there.

Once pulled over the damage was evident: a dime-sized hole into the seat cover, a hot spot on my pants and a mild burn on my arse. Awesome.

I guess the burn hole and the scratches (mostly of unknown origin) and the dents (from hitting a rock wall...a few times) and the paint smears (from hitting a parked car...okay, two of them) are all part of my car's journey - the battle wounds of life, so to speak. And evidence that maybe my driving could use some work.

But mostly that damage proves that the car is no one else's but mine. Mine, free and clear. Well, free until the transmission goes. But let's not fret over that yet.