Driving around in our 1989 Mazda is about as embarrassing as audibly farting in a crowded elevator.

It’s not the many street-parking-related dings or the rust spots. It’s not the crooked license plates or falling-off bumpers. It’s not the fact that the driver’s side window won’t roll down so we have to open the door at every toll booth. It’s not the different rattles you hear depending on the idle speed. These particulars give our little car a certain jauntiness that makes me proud.

I cringe because of the clouds of acrid smoke that billow out for the first five minutes when we start the car in the morning. Right when the clock radio goes off I start praying for a nice strong wind. Every time we start the car I think about how I am counteracting all the reducing, reusing, and recycling I do (Yay 3 R’s!), as well as the city bus riding and walking. We try to drive away quickly, without letting the car warm up, before our neighbors see us. We have to hold our breath the whole time we are stationary, which puts a limit on how much idling we can tolerate.

Sitting at a long light recently amid the hazy blue swirls, we noticed a person frantically waving outside the driver’s side window. We cracked the door open. “Your back tire is on fire!” he said. We dutifully pulled over to inspect. No, the tire was fine. He had simply mistaken the thick exhaust for something more dangerous.

There’s nothing we can do. The Mazda has over 200,000 miles on it and the engine valves are just plain leaky. We wanted to just nurse it along until we were ready for the Next Phase, taking the grimaces from the passing public as our just due and adding oil every time we filled the tank. Just last week I realized and accepted the fact that I sometimes prefer saving money to upholding my good girl civic and environmental principles.

But now, fate has tipped its hand, perhaps forcing a decision. The water pump has “fallen to pieces” and the timing belt’s gone. The old-car question rears its ugly head: Pay huge sums for the repairs or call it a day, turn out the light, close the chapter, cash in the chips?

Will we never again open its sunroof or squeeze it into a parallel parking spot no SUV can manage? Never again triumph at fitting Ikea furniture or cross country skis into it? Never again cram in two or more 6 foot + members of my writing group and laugh at the way their heads bump the ceiling? Never again tell the story of how we got the car (Given to us by a church friend in a moment of flummoxing need)? Is this it for the MX-6?