I want to tell you about my car. I love my car. I can see her when I look out my window. She’s right there . . . the white one, the smallest one, the one missing all four hubcaps.

Why do I love my car? Confession: I have actually hugged her, walked right up to her cute, smiley, VW Bug face and hugged her in front of friends and others who may have been watching. Her name is “Jitter” and I love her because she’s got problems. Quite old in car years, she’s got rust in her creases and joints and her undercarriage. Her brakes grumble when it’s cold and the speakers rattle, even when the radio is tuned to the classical station.

I love her because of her frailty, not in spite of it. I love her because her condition and character match my own. She doesn’t quite fit in, and yet she fits in most spaces; she behaves younger than her years, tends to go over the speed limit when she can, and has a sweet disposition.

I’m single, but if I was paired with someone, they’d have to be just like me . . . only a little better at some things, evenly matched in most other ways, and slightly lacking in the few skills I am somewhat confident in—like meditating, staying equanimous when the ***** hits the fan, making do with very little, and . . . parallel parking.