I drive a minivan older than my oldest child. In dog years, my van is 622. And, to be fair, it has been a darn fine vehicle. It has carried us faithfully on many a road trip, both local and our 3000 mile odyssey to Disney World last fall.
Like all of us as we age it is due a few malfunctions, both major and minor.
So when the transmission fell out, I shouldn’t have been surprised. And I wasn’t. But I was displeased.
And then began the age-old debate between my husband and I: to replace or repair? I firmly came down on one side of the issue, images of upgrades dancing in my head. In-car DVD systems, fancy speakers, cup holders that don’t have crud growing in them. Paint with nary a scratch.
Unfortunately, my husband, the wiser of us two, was just as firm on the repair side of the debate.
And now I drive a 622 1/2-year-old van (in dog years) with a gold-plated transmission. I’m sure that is what they used to replace it, given it’s cost.
And now, as we plan our next major road trip I’m grateful for those cruddy cup holders and that chipped up paint. It means we can focus on our journey and not keeping the car spotless.
In my mind, that’s the better deal, all around.